#they both insist it was on purpose and that they were the ones to deliver the final blow

[soars22]

It was the best solution they had, at the time.

They hadn’t taken this new “Hostile Faction” seriously at first. How could they? All of the factions were hostile-just look at what had happened with Pangi and the honey. What was a few new bloodthirsty faces to The Realm, really? What harm could a bunch of pirates do?

They should have listened.

It’s been months now of nonstop attacks, of homes and crops ruthlessly and systematically put to the torch, of all their people living in fear. It’s been months and they’re all at their breaking point. They meet up one night, slipping through the darkness to gather in the damp caves beneath the town. It’s the only really neutral place left, since the tavern was destroyed.

“We have to do something,” Bad mutters, pacing over the slippery stones. “Yeah, no shit, dumbass, that’s why everyone’s here,” Foolish snaps back. “And will you stop clopping everywhere with your hooves, you sound like a fucking pony, just clip-clop, clip-clop-“

“Language! I don’t see you offering any suggestions, oh ‘Great King.’”

“Ok, listen, pal, just because we have more people-why, why do I have to come up with something, huh? Why does it have to be me? Why can’t you do it?”

“But, Foolish, you said you had a plan, remember? You told me you were going to give yourself up as a hostage and let yourself be tortured to save us all!”

“What?!?” Foolish shrieks, his voice echoing painfully in the cave. “Oh, fuck that, if anyone’s getting tortured it’s going to be you—“

“Shut UP!” Tubbo snaps, eyes flashing dangerously. “Both of you just fucking stop, this isn’t getting us anywhere. We came here to make a plan, not watch you two flirt with one another!”

“Flirting?!?”

“We are NOT flirting—“

“Oh my GOD, I don’t CARE,” Toby groans, throwing himself to the ground dramatically and flinging an arm across his face. “If I wanted to watch an old married couple, I’d go spend time with Fit and Pac.” Predictably, Foolish and Bad both squawk indignantly at this. Tubbo isn’t listening to them, though; he’s just had a brilliant idea.

“Fit and Pac,” he breathes, sitting up. “Holy shit. My liege!”

“Hmm? Yes, what is it, my humble subject?”

“My liege, how would you feel about having a wife?”

_____________________________________________

“I still don’t understand why I have to wear a dress,” Bad grumbles. “Foolish isn’t wearing a dress.”

“Foolish is voluntarily wearing assless and crotchless lingerie under his armor,” Hannah says soothingly. “Besides, you kick ass in those heels.”

“Language,” Bad mutters morosely. “That’s not the point and you know it.”

“Well, think of it this way,” Pac says brightly. “At least this way you know for sure the curtains matched the drapes, right?” Bad sputters and Hannah cackles and all three of them try to ignore why they’re here in the first place, and what it’s all for. That’s a tomorrow problem, after all.

_____________________________________________

It works-barely. That’s what matters in the end. Bad works tirelessly with the Kingdom of Fools’ smith and archmage, bringing them the resources they need to craft better armor and stronger weapons and tools. Foolish commands his extra troops with chaotic yet undeniable efficiency while Pangi and Pac are a force unto themselves (for years to come, the seas would shiver with the threat of the dreaded “passa tudo”). Tubbo’s crowd pulls their weight as well, of course, with Philza to act as spy, and Tubbo’s concoctions saving more than one life in the rough battles ahead.

But they would have failed if not for the forced proximity a royal union brings. It’s not without its faults or flaws-the argument over last names alone lasted a full week and ended with five missing villages, an exploded mountain top, and a decision to turn their last names into a palindrome) but there is one thing that no one can deny:

It truly was the best decision they had.

(Thanks to @trappedinacomputer for the inspiration!)

[al-1-na]

𝒞ℴ-𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈: You’re an up-and-coming actress working on a new romantic drama with Drew. The on-screen chemistry between you two is undeniable, but it bleeds into your off-screen interactions. During a late-night rehearsal for an intimate scene, the tension finally snaps, and you explore the passion brewing behind the scenes.

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✵✵✵✵✵✵✵✵

The lights in the rehearsal room were dim, casting long shadows across the walls.

It was just you and Drew, working late to perfect a scene for the romantic drama you were both starring in. The director had insisted on chemistry, intimacy, and raw emotion-something neither of you struggled with. The problem, however, was containing it.

For weeks, the chemistry between you and Drew had been palpable. Every glance, every touch lingered just a second too long. The stolen moments between takes, the quiet laughs, the way he would always find some excuse to stand just a little closer than necessary-it had been driving you wild.

Tonight was no different.

You sat on the worn leather couch at the center of the rehearsal space, script in hand. The scene required vulnerability, with Drew's character confessing his feelings to yours. It was all about passion, desire, and longing. Easy to act, but impossible to separate from the growing tension that simmered between you.

Drew stood a few feet away, rolling his shoulders back, his jaw tight with focus.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes intense. "Ready to go again?" His voice was low, smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, clearing your throat. "Yeah. Let's do it."

The scene began, and Drew stepped closer, his presence overwhelming as he delivered his lines. His hand brushed yours—a touch that wasn't in the script-and your breath hitched. His thumb traced a small circle on your wrist, his eyes locked on yours.

"I can't do this anymore," he said, his voice trembling, though you couldn't tell if it was the character or Drew himself. "I can't keep pretending I don't want you."

The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken words. It wasn't just acting anymore. You could feel it-the line between fiction and reality blurring.

"And what if I feel the same?" you whispered, following the script, but your heart raced with something real. Drew's gaze flicked down to your lips, his breathing

uneven.

"Then stop me," he murmured, stepping closer, his next line falling to the wayside. "If I'm crossing a line, tell me now."

You didn't stop him. Instead, you tilted your head, lips parting slightly as he leaned in. The script fell from your hands, forgotten, as his lips brushed against yours-a tentative, testing touch that quickly deepened.

You gasped softly, and Drew took it as permission, pulling you closer. His hands slid to your waist, fingers gripping you with a desperation that had been building for weeks. Your own hands tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning a low groan from him that sent heat pooling in your core.

"God, I've been wanting to do that for so long," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with need. He trailed kisses down your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin.

"You have no idea what you do to me."

"Show me," you whispered, breathless, and that was all it took.

Drew lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the couch before crawling over you, his body pressing against yours. His lips found yours again, more urgent this time, his hands roaming your body as if he couldn't get enough. Your shirt was the first to go, followed quickly by his, discarded somewhere on the floor as the heat between you grew unbearable.

His lips trailed down your neck, teeth and tongue teasing sensitive spots that had you arching against him. His hands moved with purpose, sliding under the waistband of your leggings, tugging them down in one swift motion. He groaned as his eyes roamed over you, his hands exploring every inch of exposed skin.

"Drew," you breathed, your voice trembling with need. He looked up at you, his expression dark, intense.

"Tell me what you want," he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine. "I need to hear you say it."

"I want you," you whispered, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "All of you."

That was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found yours again, his hands working to rid himself of the last barriers between you. The couch creaked beneath you as he finally pressed against you, skin to skin, the heat of his body overwhelming.

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[fraugwinska]

Hi! Okay, damn, sorry, i tried to chill out and not request again so quickly 😅 but I've been constantly thinking about your writing, and I've read all your Alastor one shots like 10 times each...

I'm especially hung up on the ending of More than Words, I did not expect you to end it in such a sweet way and honestly I'd love to see a follow up to that, basically a part two :)

Plot wise I was thinking:

It's been a few weeks since the two of you fell asleep on the couch and Charlie is getting impatient since nothing else happened between Alastor and reader but she can see the way the two looks at each other when they think no one is watching. So, Charlie being Charlie, makes up a plan to set you two up. She also involves everyone at the hotel and some people outside (Rosie) - she makes it so whenever there's some activity, you two are always paired up, or Rosie invites you both for dinner but five minutes into it she leaves saying she forget about something important. And you notice what she's trying to do and while you do appreciate it, you also see that Alastor feels anxious and pressured (you see that but not the fact he's growing feeling for you), so you decide to talk with her. And Alastor hears everything? And we get another amazing sweet emotional ending? 👀🥰

Last thing last - please do not feel pressured to write it or anything, i just wanted to share this with you cause it's been on my mind 😅❤️

You ask - the fluff fairy delivers! 🧚✨ I loved More than words, so I was super happy and excited to write a continuation - and it's as fluffy and wholesome as can be! :> Thank you, Anon, for the suggestion and your beautiful, kind words!!!

❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️🦌❤️

Louder than Words

"...and with Niffty choosing Husk, that leaves you two."

Charlie clapped her hands together with a gleeful smile, eyes darting between an annoyed looking Alastor and an annoyed looking you.

"Yes. That leaves us.", you sigh.

"Again.", Alastor adds, the smile on his lips twitching.

"Oh come on, guys, don't be such spoilsports. Look at how much fun this is!" she gestured to a blindfolded and beaten up Vaggie, cursing at Angel in Spanish who howled with laughter as he pushed her through Charlies makeshift obstacle course with much too much carelessness.

"Well I'll be damned. Ange actually managed to get her to to run into the same desk twice without gettin' punched.", Husk said in amused bewilderment, just as a loud "OUCH, ey, stop it Vagina!" was heard. Niffty giggled, blindfolding herself and taking Husks paw. The cat groaned but started to lead her - or more she dragged him - through the course, constantly (almost purposely) hitting something in her way.

You and Alastor looked at each other.

"Well, I guess you don't feel like going through a minefield of office furniture.", you shrugged, and took the last blindfold from Charlies hands, ignoring her excited squeal as you put it on. "Don't let me run into the coffee table, my shins still hurt from last weeks bonding exercise..."

Alastor let out an exasperated sigh. "Very well, then."

This was getting out of hand. As you felt Alastor's hand on your back, pushing you into the blindness forward, you thought about the last few bonding and trust exercises and how blatantly obvious Charlie was in her determination to get you and Alastor together.

At first you didn't mind, since she didn't make you do anything that wasn't bearable. On one activity, you had to tell your partner what you appreciated about them, that had been easy. Before Alastor could turn to Niffty, who stood next to him, she had almost hauled herself away, insisting on Angel as her partner, and Angel - next to you - nodded with unfitting eagerness. Alastor told you about how good you were at listening and giving good advice, and you had told him you loved the way he spoke - the accent, his way of choosing words and the melodic voice he had, and that you liked his laugh. Easy.

On another activity, Charlie made everyone pair up (of course, you were Alastor's partner, and this time you were sure the sticks you drew were marked by Charlie and Husk by the way they had shared mischievous looks) and hug their partner for five minutes. That had been less fun. You were much too aware how averse Alastor was to physical touch, and although he could've had it worse with Angel or Vaggie, you still felt bad when you saw the look on his face as Charlie set the timer. "We don't have to, Al. I can just sit this one out.", you had told him, but with a pained smile, he wrapped his arms around you stiffly, holding you in an awkward embrace. "It's alright dear, just... stay still, would you?" It had been a weird, uncomfortable silence, those five minutes. You avoided any touch yourself and did not dare to look him in the eyes, so to not make it any more weird for him.

It had taken you a long time to understand that the radio demon was, in it's essence, just another former human being turned sinner. A man with a lot of traumas and issues, who had died and gone to hell. Not a good person by heavenly standards... by most standards really, being an overlord and cannibal and all, but in hell that didn't really mean anything, you were all there for a reason. It certainly meant nothing to you. With a lot of work from your end, he had learned to trust you, and in return he let you get to know him, step by step.

But all these efforts could go down the drain at this infuriating persistence of everyone around you to force something that shouldn't be forced. Alastor was already uncomfortable at being touched, already hesitant to share things from his past, or his feelings, already on the fence of showing genuine kindness and trust. The last thing you wanted was to lose all the progress you've made with him.

The feeling of his arms around you had burned itself into your memory, and the scent of him had stuck to your skin for a long time. You weren't stupid, it had been a long time coming, this goddamn crush on him, this fluttering feeling one gets when getting too close to another. You had fallen for him a long time ago, and you could argue with reason all you wanted - it didn't change the fact you liked Alastor more than just a friend. BUT - and this but was important - he never had shown any interest in relationships, romance, love or anything. And that was fine. You were content to have him in your life, and if that was as 'just' trusted friends, you would still take it in a heartbeat.

"Watch out, darling, armchair to your left." Alastor's voice, right next to your ear, made you flinch. "Careful now, the carpet is starting to change into hardwood.", he warned and you nodded, taking careful steps. You had no idea where you were in the foyer, or if you were nearing the door or the stairs. "Are we anywhere close to the finish line?", you asked him and you heard his quiet chuckle.

"Oh no, we still have quite a way to go. Don't worry, my dear, I'll make sure you're not going to run into the remains of the cupboard Niffty just destroyed." His hand on your waist, guiding you, made you swallow nervously.

That gesture reminded you of another instance of your friends overreaching insistence - your visit at Rosie's last week. Rosie, your long-time friend, had invited you and Alastor for a dinner party. She had sent a message through Charlie (which should have been your first clue that something was not right), but both of you had decided to go, because who were you to deny her hospitality? You had been surprised to find her emporium so... empty, when you entered. No servants, no other guests, no one. Only you, Alastor and Rosie, sitting in her lounge chatting about the newest gossip of hellish politics before she served a whole feast of venison, various vegetables and side dishes, all of which had looked exquisite and overly fancy.

She had left almost as soon as you and Alastor sat down, saying she forgot to pick up something important from across the colony, and to not wait on her while she rushed out of the room with a glistening smile. You had watched her suspiciously, knowing she was up to something. It didn't take a genius to realize she was trying to set you two up, and Alastor seemed to have understood the same, because of the way he pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly uncomfortable and tense the whole evening. It had been a somewhat awkward affair, the two of you eating and desperately chatting, unwilling to waste the food. But you couldn't even get a proper bite down your throat with how much your stomach was twisting.

When Rosie returned, she found you sitting on the sofa, drinking tea, while Alastor was absent.

"Did something happen?", she had asked you with a pinch of impish curiosity, and you had replied "No. Nothing." in a dry tone. She had sat down next to you, asking how dinner had been, and if the two of you enjoyed yourselves. "Oh yes, it was lovely, although your seat empty surely was a little damper on the fun." you had answered, giving her a fake smile. You never saw her that abashed before. When Alastor returned to bring you back to the hotel, the walk had been... silent. Awkward, as you hung on his arm he had presented you, with him unable to look you in the eyes and you not wanting to press him into more talking. When you had arrived home, he guided you through the double doors, his hand on your waist, before quickly saying good night and melting into his shadows to rush away into his room, leaving you alone in the dark foyer.

It was like you were standing on glass, always having an eye out to make sure others wouldn't push too hard and break the thin ice you walked on, with a dangerous fondness deep beneath the surface, too fragile to poke.

"...listening, Darling?"

"Huh? What?"

You felt the blindfold being removed from your eyes, the sudden light blinding you.

"You look a little flushed my dear." you blinked your eyes, only to see Alastor stand directly in front of you, just barely out of arms reach, staring you in the face with a scrutinizing expression. "The exercise is over, we made it through the course without a scratch, I hope I didn't cause you any discomfort."

It took a moment for you to realize that you stood at the edge of the maze of furniture, but what really knocked you off your balance was the way Alastor's head was tilted slightly to one side, his crimson eyes almost boring through you, staring deep into your soul, as if he was looking for you, truly seeing you, and how he reached out a sharp tipped hand towards you with the look of worry on his face. You took a step back, laughing nervously and raking a hand through your hair.

"All good, Al. I'm just glad there's no imprint of my face on any of the cupboards." You saw him jerk his hand back with a pained smile. "Splendid.", he laughed, the edges of it trembling. He looked everywhere but at you, "Shall we join the others, then?"

You followed him to one of the sofas and let yourself fall on the plush cushions next to him. You watched his ears twitch as Angel hollered a jubilant cheer of Vaggie's name, who finally reached the end of the course, the blood on her shins almost dried. Husk patted a panting Niffty on the back with a fond look, while Charlie cheered as Angel bowed for her with a big grin.

"Told 'ya the spicy taco and I could make it out alive and in one piece, Charls!"

Vaggie gave Angel a deathly glance, then sighed. "It's high time for lunch, hon. All the blood loss made me hungry..."

The group collectively agreed and headed towards the kitchen, talking and laughing loudly with each other. You couldn't help but give Alastor, who kept his gaze anywhere else than to you, a look, furrowing your brow. This had to stop, now.

"Charlie, do.... do you have a minute?"

The princess stopped to look at you, her smile disappearing and her eyes widening as she saw the stern expression on your face.

"Uh- Yeah, sure.", she shot Vaggie a look, as if begging for her help, but you just grabbed her hand and pulled her away into a nearby corridor while the others snickered and headed off, telling them to take their time. Charlie gave you a nervous glance, and the pitiful face of guilt only worsened your mood.

"Charlie, I know you mean well, but you have to stop."

"Listen, I didn't mean any harm..." Her face was full of pitiful remorse. You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed.

"I'm aware of that, Charlie, but you are making Al uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry, really, that's not my intention! I just Thought you two need a little push in the right..."

"This whole... THIS might end our friendship all together and I don't want to take that risk! You're even getting the others involved. For fuck's sake, even Rosie is in on it. Al doesn't want this - us, relationship-thing, WHATEVER, and it is not okay for you to press us!"

Her eyebrows shot up. "But you want it."

"What?", you said, irritated.

"You're only talking about him, and his feelings. But what I'm hearing is, that you... you like him, right? You'd say yes to..."

Tears of frustration shot into your eyes. Why didn't Charlie get it? "That doesn't matter. It's not something only one can decide, you should know that. He doesn't feel the same, and that's fine. He doesn't want to be with me, and that's fine. I can accept that. What I can't accept is the way you're hellbent on forcing a relationship on us. He is happy the way we are, and I don't want you and the others to mess that up."

You turn away from her, angry and hurt. "I just... want him to be happy. To have his boundaries respected."

"I... I'm sorry...", Charlie started, but you already walked off.

You were angry. Angry at Charlie, angry at everyone, angry at yourself. Almost at your doorstep, a hand on your shoulder stopped you.

"Dearest? I'd like to talk, if that's alright with you."

It was Alastor. Of course it was Alastor.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, a feeling of dread and guilt washing over you, as if he had overheard the entire conversation, and you slowly turned around, swallowing. He didn't seem upset, but his face was calm and serious, not the usual cheerful smile on his lips.

"Of course."

He held the door to your own room open for you, closing it behind him after you entered.

"Take a seat, Darling, if you would."

You sat down, hands in your lap, avoiding his gaze, looking at your carpet with feigned interest. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a painful stinging sensation in your stomach.

"Darling, would you look at me, please."

With a heavy sigh, you obliged, looking up.

"Al, listen, I'm sorry...", you started, but were interrupted by the radio demon's hand, raising up.

"Please. Let me talk, would you, my dear."

You closed your mouth, and he nodded, a gentle smile on his lips.

"I know I'm a... difficult man. And I am not exactly the best in understanding the feelings of others. I also know that the princess and - under her meticulous orchestration - our fellow residents, are quite adamant in their endeavor to try and push us together."

You swallowed, hard. The way he looked at you made your stomach drop.

"Al, listen, it's alright, I've talked to Charlie and I'll tell the others to stop..."

"Darling, would you PLEASE shut up for a minute?"

The room was suddenly silent. He rarely talked like that to you.

"As I was saying..." He sighed, and you couldn't help but think he was utterly frustrated. You felt horrible. "I don't appreciate it when people assume what I want or don't want."

"Neither do I.", you mumbled, and he let out a laugh.

"That is precisely my point, Darling." Alastor took a few steps towards you, his cane twirling in his hands before he poofed it out of existence. "And as such, I've been pondering for a while how to proceed. The way the others keep pestering us, I thought it's better to clear things up between us."

Your heart sank. So he did overhear your conversation with Charlie, after all. You couldn't blame him. You would've done the same.

"Alastor, I understand..."

"Do you now?", he asked, tilting his head to one side, an incredulous smirk playing on his lips. Lips that were suddenly awfully close to your own. When did he get so close? Why did he get so close?!

Everything slowed down - his arm snaked around your waist, his hand came up to your neck, a thumb caressing the little dip of the bottom of your jaw. Your trembling hands came to rest on his chest, and you felt his heartbeat hammering underneath the fabric of his jacket. His eyes, those beautiful crimson eyes, were fixed on yours, and your breath came out in a shaky sigh before his lips closed over yours, kissing you so softly and sweetly you could barely comprehend what was happening. Your fingers gripped the lapels of his jacket, holding on for dear life, and as he deepened the kiss, you gasped, your whole body tensing, melting, yearning.

It felt like a dream, an out of body experience, and for a short, panicked moment, you felt the cold, hard grip of fear around your heart. What if it was just a dream, and when you wake up, everything is back to the way it was before? What if he would pull away any moment, and apologize, saying he made a mistake?

But the fear disappeared almost immediately, when Alastor hummed contently, and pulled you even closer to him.

You could feel the warmth of his body, the way his hand on your neck got tangled in your hair, how his breath was mingling with yours, and the scent of him filled your nose. The faint smell of spices, old books, wood and something like burnt amber, a scent you would never get enough of.

"Now tell me, dearest, if you understood.", he murmured against your lips, the grin audible in his voice.

"I... might need a little more explanation."

You could almost hear him roll his eyes as he leaned in to kiss you again, and his laughter against your lips made your heart skip more than just one beat. The sound of wood cracking and a loud rumble snapped both of your heads towards your door.

In a pile of heads and limbs, five bodies fell through the splintered wood of your door frame, groaning in pain, the remains of the door still swinging in its hinges.

Alastor looked at the pile of eavesdroppers, a wide, dangerous grin on his face.

"Dear me, what an entrance. I wonder, did the door offend you, or was that the result of a lack of proper manners?"

Angel, being the first to poke his head out of the groaning mess of sinners, pointed at you with one of his arms, the others fisted the air in victory.

"A-HA! WE FUCKING DID IT, fuck yeah!"

Niffty, the next one to crawl out of the pile, nodded eagerly.

"I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!", she chanted, jumping up and down excitedly on a groaning Husk's back.

Charlie's face came into view, a guilty look on her face as she untangled the others in a hurry, shoving them out of the door.

"Uh, so, sorry, the door was kinda in the way. Didn't want to interrupt anything, sooo, We're just gonna... get back to cooking."

With her tail between her legs, the flustered princess and her entourage vanished faster than the speed of light, leaving you and Alastor alone with your heart pounding fast, your hands still clutching the front of the overlords jacket, and his arms around your waist in a protective embrace, your breaths mingling.

"Would it bother you terribly if I killed them?", Alastor growled low in his throat, his smile widening.

You just couldn't stop grinning. "As tempting as that is... I rather you don't. For now, that is. Ask me again when they are finished cooking."

He returned your smile. "Fair enough, dear."

He closed the gap between you and his lips meet yours halfway in a soft, and most certainly not-enough-to-last-a-lifetime kind of kiss. You thought you could get used to this.

"I'm sure they can handle lunch by themselves, don't you think?", he hummed into your ear. You didn't trust your voice to reply, and simply nodded.

"Wonderful."

Tagging all commenters on 'More than words', because LOVE @mysterypotatoink @ladyzaunis @penelope-potter @lustylita @saints-wrapped-in-plastic @katgirl05 @deadt3tinside and @minkdelovely (for the daily dose of fluff)

[wonywish]

currently having very unholy thoughts about having a little fling with sohyun and catching feelings for her. at first you try to hide them but eventually you can’t help yourself and you confess. she turns you down, saying she’s not ready for a serious relationship and values her freedom. it of course shatters your heart at the time but you force yourself to move on

time skip to some months later and you’re both invited to the party of a mutual friend and you show up hand in hand with your new fling and she just feels a surge of anger ripple through her bones. all her friends notice the obvious shift in her mood, and even you do from all the way across the room feeling her eyes staring daggers at you and your oblivious lover.

thinking about jealous sohyun who finally gathers the nerve to make her way over to you, grabs you by the hand when your fling is preoccupied with dancing with their friends to the blaring music and pulls you into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind you. you open your mouth to protest and ask who exactly she thinks she is and what she’s doing but before you can one of her hands is on your chin as she pulls you in and attaches her pretty lips to yours. the breath is knocked out of you as you gasp at her boldness and she simply deepens the kiss.

jealous sohyun whose mind is racing as she helps you onto the bathroom counter pinching your thigh and kneels on the floor and lifts your skirt, a sly smile on her face as she maintains eye contact with you and mentions the embarrassing wet patch that is evident on your panties, teasing you about how you wanted this all along. insisting that you were purposely trying to make her jealous so that she’d pull you away and remind you who you belong to.

jealous sohyun who slips your panties off and tosses them to the side, taking two fingers to your cunt, pushing them in slowly and stroking your walls, letting your wetness collect on them before bringing her fingers to her mouth letting out a moan at your taste as you feel your cheeks begin to burn and your cunt clenches around nothing at the sound.

i swear she just has the perfect mouth for eating you out?? she delivers a few seductive kitten licks to your clit and sucks ever so softly and next thing you know she’s devouring you like a woman starved and all you can do is tangle your fingers in her thick hair biting back your moans as she delves deeper into your heat. licking, biting, and squeezing at your plush thighs and occasionally leaving kisses on your soft stomach before returning to her original task of sending you over the edge.

involuntarily bucking your hips and pushing the back of her head deeper into you as you feel your orgasm approaching, completely forgetting your former embarrassment and letting your sinful whines fall from your lips as you chant her name which only encourages her to pick up her pace as you stutter out that you’re almost there.

“please please please” you beg pathetically, barely even making a full sound, your voice just breathlessly scattered as your eyes widen and you sinfully open your legs wider to grant her better access as your body tingles and is overcome with toe curling pleasure

hi um idk why this got so long bc it definitely wasn’t supposed to and it’s my first time ever writing something like this so i’m not entirely mad, but i’m so sorry for being terrible at writing smut / explaining thoughts !! anyways i want sohyun so bad it’s not even funny anymore . . .

[widowromanova]

Sniper (part 2) - Natasha x Female Reader

warnings: mentions of violence, SMUT!!!

word count: 4891

a/n: here's the asked for part 2 (with (part of) their backstory) ;)

You shouldn’t have hesitated, you couldn’t afford to hesitate. God! How could you be so reckless! You had spent so long training just to avoid this. And yet, when you saw her tonight, the same fire in her eyes that once drew you in, every carefully constructed wall you’d built came crashing down.

It had been years since the two of you were more than just co-workers. Back then, it hadn’t just been reckless - it had been dangerous and intoxicating. Natasha had drawn you into her orbit effortlessly, she had a way of making you feel like the only person in the room, the only one who mattered, even when you both knew that wasn’t true.

The secrecy wasn’t just about breaking SHIELD’s rules; it was about protection. You had both made enemies, people who wouldn’t hesitate to use your connection against you. Hiding it wasn’t just to keep your careers intact - it was to keep each other safe. But the risk had only made it more intense.

It all started at that party, "God, what a cliché," you thought. SHIELD’s annual gala was never your scene, but Fury had insisted on your attendance, throwing out some half-hearted excuse about team morale. You had arrived late, your shirt buttoned-up wrong, trying to disappear into the background.

And then you saw her.

Natasha was standing at the edge of the room, her back to the wall, a glass of champagne in hand, her body dripping in a silk black dress. She looked untouchable, like she always did. But her eyes - those sharp, calculating eyes - were scanning the crowd with purpose. She wasn’t there for the small talk or the niceties. She never was. And yet, when her gaze found yours, something shifted. For a moment, the room and its noise blurred, the crowd nothing more than a collection of moving shadows. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smirk, and you knew she’d seen right through your plan to fade into obscurity.

She approached you first. Of course she did. Natasha never waited for anyone to come to her.

“You look miserable,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Let me guess, Fury dragged you here too?”

You’d laughed, caught off guard by the lightness of her tone. “Something like that. And you? I thought you thrived in situations like this.”

Her smile widened, but there was a glint of something deeper in her eyes. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them.”

“Yeah, not exactly my idea of a good time,” you admitted, looking around the room.

She tilted her head, studying you with that sharp, assessing gaze. Her eyes flicked downward, and a small smirk tugged at her lips.

"Not your idea of a good time," she said, her tone laced with amusement. "Or maybe you’re just bad at dressing for it."

You frowned, confused, until she reached forward and tugged lightly at the collar of your shirt. It wasn’t until she stepped closer, the faint scent of her perfume brushing past you, that you realized what she was doing.

“Your buttons,” she murmured, her voice low, almost playful. Her fingers worked deftly, undoing the mismatched ones near your collar. “You can’t walk around looking like this- it’ll ruin the reputation Fury worked so hard to build for you.”

She delivered the last part with a dripping sarcasm that made you huff a quiet laugh despite yourself. “Oh, is that what Fury’s worried about?” you shot back, the corner of your mouth twitching into a smirk.

Her lips curved into a knowing grin as she finished fixing your shirt. “Absolutely. You’re the poster child for professionalism,” she said, her tone still laced with mockery.

“Thanks,” you muttered, feeling warmth creep up the back of your neck. You weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or the proximity of her hands, brushing just lightly enough against your chest to make you uncomfortably aware of how close she was.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, her tone casual, but when she looked up, there was that spark in her eyes again, the one that made it hard to breathe. “There. Perfect.”

She patted your chest lightly, the gesture half-teasing, half-sincere, before stepping back with a satisfied smile. “Much better. Now you look like someone worth talking to.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t realize I was under inspection.”

“Always,” she quipped, looking you up and down in a satisfactory manner before grabbing her glass of champagne again. “You should know that by now.”

And just like that, she had you. In the span of a minute, Natasha Romanoff had taken a mundane moment and turned it into something you couldn’t stop thinking about. Looking back, you wondered if that had been her plan all along.

She tilted her head, studying you for a moment that felt longer than it should have. Then, with a mischievous spark, she handed you a drink. “Come on. Let’s make it more interesting.”

That was how it began - not with a grand declaration or a dramatic moment, but with Natasha pulling you out of the gala and onto the rooftop, away from the crowd. The conversation had been easy, surprisingly so. You had laughed, teased, talked about things you probably shouldn’t have, and for the first time, you saw Natasha not as the infamous Black Widow but as someone real.

The rooftop was quiet, the distant hum of the city below filling the silence. You leaned against the ledge, while Natasha stood a few feet away, her posture relaxed but somehow still charged with an energy that made her impossible to ignore.

For a while, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t the uncomfortable silence of strangers or colleagues forced into proximity, but something more natural. You could hear the faint clink of her glass as she swirled the last of her champagne, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

“You know,” she finally said, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful, “this is the first time I’ve been able to breathe all night.”

You turned your head to look at her, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of her face. “Yeah? Doesn’t seem like anything gets to you.”

She smirked at that, a small, almost wistful expression. “Maybe I’m just good at hiding it.”

Something about the way she said it made your chest tighten. There was a vulnerability in her voice, and you wondered how many people ever got to hear it.

She set her empty glass down on the ledge, turning to face you fully. Her green eyes held yours, unguarded in a way that felt disarming.

“Why do you do that?” she asked suddenly, her tone shifting.

“Do what?”

“Act like you’re not interesting,” she said, taking a step closer. “Like you’re just… background noise in a room full of people.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but she was already moving, closing the distance between you with a deliberate slowness. Her hand brushed your arm, light and tentative at first, then bolder as her fingers trailed down to your wrist.

“You’re not,” she murmured, her voice low and steady.

You should’ve stepped back, put some distance between you. Instead, you found yourself rooted to the spot, caught in her pull. Natasha’s free hand reached up, her fingers brushing the side of your face, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

For a moment, everything else faded - the gala, the rules, the risks. All that mattered was the way she was looking at you.

“Tell me to stop,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her lips hovering just a breath away from yours.

Your heart pounded, each beat louder than the last as her words echoed in your mind. You should’ve said something - anything - but the way her eyes searched yours stole the breath from your lungs.

Natasha tilted her head, closing the gap the rest of the way, her lips brushing yours with a softness that sent a shiver through you. The kiss wasn’t rushed or demanding, but deliberate, as if she was waiting for you to pull away, to stop her. When you didn’t, her hand slid from your wrist up to your neck, her touch both steady and grounding.

Your hands found her waist, hesitating for a moment before you pulled her closer, the tension melting away. And now, all of a sudden, the cool night air seemed warmer.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead resting against yours, her breath mingled with yours in the space between. She didn’t speak right away, her eyes flickering over your face as if she was committing every detail to memory.

“This changes things,” she said softly, a small, wry smile tugging at her lips.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, “it does.”

From then on, you met in secret. The first time you met was two days after the gala, when you received a message from an anonymous number with a single address and the words “8 PM.” You debated whether or not to go, well aware that anything involving Natasha would likely lead to trouble. But something about the thrill of her pulled you in.

At 8 o’clock, you arrived at the address, a small, unassuming apartment building on the outskirts of the city. You climbed the stairs and knocked on the door, pulse racing with anticipation and uncertainty. The door opened revealing Natasha, dressed casually in a black tank top and jeans, her hair pulled back into a messy bun. At the sight of you, a slow smile curled at the corners of her lips.

"You didn't give me much choice," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the way your heart rate spiked at the sound of her voice.

She smiled softly, stepping aside to let you in. The apartment was cozy, dimly lit, and almost surprisingly normal-looking.

"Drink?" she asked, gesturing toward a bottle of scotch sitting on the kitchen counter. You nodded, accepting the glass she handed you. The silence between you was heavy. You watched her as she took a sip of her drink, studying you for a moment before finally speaking.

"I wasn't sure if you'd show up," she admitted, setting her glass down on the countertop and leaning on her arm against it. You shrugged, "Curiosity got the best of me, I suppose."

She raised an eyebrow, her smile growing into an almost predatory smirk. "Curiosity, huh?" You didn't respond, choosing instead to take a long drink. The scotch burned your throat, but you drank until you felt the heat in your cheeks cool.

Natasha tilted her head, her eyes roaming over you in that assessing way she had. She took a step closer, her proximity making it harder to think. "You're tense," she observed, her voice low and smooth. "Relax. I don't bite," she ran a hand up and down your arm. You swallowed, feeling your pulse quicken. "I'd bet money you do," you quipped back.

Her smile widened. "Maybe I do," she murmured. "But not tonight." She held your gaze, her expression unreadable. For a moment, all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat drumming in your ears. Then, she lifted her hand to your face, her fingers lightly tracing the outline of your jaw.

"You're making this difficult," she murmured, her touch leaving a trail of heat. "I didn't expect you to be so..."

"So what?"

She paused, her eyes searching yours. “So… different,” she said finally, her voice soft but firm, like she wasn’t sure she wanted to admit it. “I’ve been trying to keep things simple, but you…”

Her words trailed off as her hand rested against your chest, her thumb brushing the fabric of your shirt. The faintest smile tugged at her lips, “You make it quite hard.”

The space between you seemed to shrink. You wanted to ask her what she meant, to press her for clarity, but you already knew the answer. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. "Simple isn't really your style, is it?" you managed to say, your voice betraying the emotions churning inside.

Her wry smile deepened, a glint of mischief sparking in her eyes as her fingers lingered at your jaw, her thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “Simple is boring,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You tried to reply, to find some clever retort that would keep you grounded. All you could focus on was the way she looked at you, like she was daring you to close the last sliver of space between you.

“Natasha…” you started, but her name came out more like a sigh than a warning.

She tilted her head, her lips curving into a knowing smirk. “What?” she asked, her tone teasing but soft. “I thought you liked complicated.” Before you could answer, her hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer.

And then, without hesitation, she kissed you.

It wasn’t tentative or unsure; it was deliberate, purposeful, like she wasn’t going to give you a chance to second-guess her. Again, her lips were warm, soft, but there was an urgency beneath it.

You responded instinctively, your hands finding her waist as you pulled her against you, deepening the kiss.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, and she let out a soft, almost amused breath. “See?” she whispered, her voice laced with a hint of triumph. “Complicated isn’t so bad.”

Her hand was still on the back of your neck, her fingers tracing idle patterns that sent shivers down your spine. "No," you breathed, your voice a low rumble against her skin, "it's not." You reached for her, pulling her head to the side to kiss her neck. She let out a soft, almost surprised gasp as your lips found her skin. Her fingers tightened in your hair, her body instinctively arching into you. You traced a line of kisses down her throat, tasting the salt and sweetness of her skin. Each press of your lips seemed to ignite a fire in her, a barely restrained need that mirrored your own. Her hand roamed down your back, nails scraping light and dangerous, sending another shiver through you. "You're not playing fair," she murmured in your ear, her voice ragged and breathless.

You smirked against her skin, pulling her closer, your hands sliding under the hem of her shirt. "Who said I was playing fair?" You pushed her backwards until she was against the wall, pinning her there with the weight of your body. Her eyes darkened, a mixture of desire and challenge in them. You reached up, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. She let out a small gasp, her lips parting in surprise, her chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. She could have easily freed herself, but instead, she leaned into you, her body pressed flush against yours.

You tightened your grip on her wrists, holding her captive as you dispersed kiss after kiss, tracing the veins on her neck. She arched into you, her mouth brushing the shell of your ear, a low whisper of “What do you think you're doing?” You didn't respond. Your lips found her jaw, trailing a path of fire down her neck. Her body responded to your touch, her breaths uneven, her skin flushed. A quiet moan escaped her as you kissed along her collarbone, and you felt the tension in her shoulders start to loosen. But before you could go further, Natasha’s hand found its way to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she pulled your head back sharply, bringing your eyes to meet hers.

“I didn’t say you could keep going,” she said, her voice breathless, a playful edge beneath the words.

You could see the challenge in her eyes, the same one that had always drawn you in - fearless, confident.

“Maybe I don’t need permission,” you murmured, your lips curling into a teasing smile.

She raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge in the air between you, before her fingers slid from your hair, holding your face in her hands. “I like it when you’re bold,” she said softly, her voice now a mix of approval. Her thumb brushed over your lower lip, a gesture so intimate it made your heart skip a beat. “But," she continued, her voice a low, gravelly murmur, "don't get ahead of yourself."

"And why not?" you challenged.

Natasha smirked, the challenge clear in her eyes. "Because I said so," she replied firmly, her fingers tightening around your jaw.

She took a step forward, closing the small distance between you. Her body was now pressed against yours, her gaze intense and unwavering. "And if there's one thing you should know about me," she continued, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper, "I always get what I want."

In one swift motion, she turned, slamming you against the wall, her body pinning you there as her mouth found yours. The kiss was fiery, possessive, her tongue demanding entry as her hands gripped at your shirt, pulling you closer. Her leg pressed between yours, her knee rubbing slightly against the growing wet spot there. You could feel her smirk against your lips, her teeth nipping at your tongue. Her hands were under your shirt now, nails scraping down your stomach.

She pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss, her chest heaving with each ragged breath. Her thumb traced over your lips, swollen and tender from her, her touch feather-light yet utterly possessive.

"Still think you're in charge here?" she murmured, her voice a low husk. Her grip on your hips tightened, her knee pressing into you further, eliciting a low moan from you. She looked you up and down, "You're wearing too much."

Without waiting for a response, she started tugging at your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift move. Her gaze raked over your exposed skin, a look of hunger in her eyes. You watched her, goose bumps pebbling across your skin. She took her own shirt off now, her skin gleaming under the light, a canvas of muscle and scars, a stark contrast to the delicate curve of her hip. She moved closer, pressing herself against you, her bare skin against yours. Her hands roamed over your body, mapping every contour, every muscle. She traced a line down your chest, nails scratching lightly against your skin. Her mouth found your neck, her lips grazing over the sensitive flesh there, her breath hot and heavy against your skin. You began to fiddle with the clasp of her bra, desperately trying to undress her.

She pulled away slightly, her hands catching yours, pinning them against the wall above your head. Her expression was stern, almost predatory, a silent command to stay still. "Patience," she murmured, her breath tickling your ear. She let go of your hands to reach behind her back, unclasping the garment herself. You watched as she seductively took it off to drop it at your feet then pulled the waistband of her underwear down as well, dropping them beside her bra. Her hands skimmed over your hips, her thumbs hooking into the waistband. She looked up at you, a silent question in her eyes, seeking permission. You could only nod, words failing you. Your brain was a hazy mess of need and the sharp awareness of every inch of your body where she touched you.

You felt the material slither down your legs, heard the whisper of it falling to the floor. You were exposed now, vulnerable in a way you hadn't been before. But there was no shame in your nudity under Natasha's gaze, only a growing sense of belonging. She harshly grabbed you by the face again, your lips clashing as she haphazardly walked you over to the sofa where she pushed you to sit down.

You landed on the couch with a thud, your breath leaving you in a rush. Before you could even catch your bearings, Natasha was on you, straddling your lap, her body pressed flush against yours. Her mouth found yours again, her kiss rough and demanding. Her weight was pinning you to the cushions, the feeling of her skin against yours sending sparks through you. Your hands found their way to her hips, gripping tightly.

You moved your leg to position itself between hers, watching her as she tensed slightly at the movement, a small gasp escaping her lips. She broke the kiss to bury her face in the crook of your neck, her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. You could feel her shiver, her body involuntarily rocking against your leg.

"Eager," she murmured against your neck, her voice a ragged whisper, "aren't you?" Her tongue traced a path down your throat, pleasure searing through you. She ground against your thigh, seeking friction, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Your hands tightened on her hips, guiding her movements despite the loss of control. She whined in your ear, as you managed to gasp out a few words, your voice thick with desire. "I thought you were the one in charge," you panted, your fingers running up her sides to caress the soft skin of her back.

She pulled back slightly to look at you, her eyes dark with desire. "And I am," she replied, her words punctuated by a roll of her hips against your thigh. "But," she continued, her voice dropping as she let out another moan, "I like it when you get... unruly."

Your hands roamed over her body in response, one staying on her hip while the other moved higher, tracing the curve of her breast. She arched into your touch, a soft moan escaping her. The sight was almost too much to bear, the way she responded to you like a drug. She leaned in closer, her mouth finding yours again, her tongue insistent, demanding entry. She moved against you, each roll of her hips against your leg driving you both closer to the edge. You were lost in her.

Your fingers slowly moved down her stomach, stopping just above her pelvis. Her breath hitched at the feel of your fingers so close to where she wanted them most. Her hips instinctively thrust towards your hand, a silent plea for more. A low moan escaped her throat, her eyes dark and burning into yours. "Stop... teasing," she gasped, the words barely more than a ragged whisper.

You smirked at her, watching her domination over you waver, your hand staying exactly where you placed it. Her body was tense against you, a barely contained coil of energy waiting to snap. The look in her eyes was a mix of frustration and desire as she shifted her weight, her knees digging into the couch on either side of you. "I said stop..." she repeated, her voice a low growl. But her body betrayed her words, her hips still moving on their own accord, seeking out your touch. Your fingers trailed lightly over her skin, drawing lazy circles that drove her wild, but never quite giving her what she wanted.

Her eyes darkened, a growl-like sound rumbling in her throat. She grabbed your face firmly, her grip just on the edge of being painful. "You're playing a dangerous game here," she muttered, her body pressed flush against yours. Her fingers tangled in your hair, forcing your head back, leaving your neck exposed to her. Her mouth latched onto the sensitive skin of your neck, teeth sinking in just enough to make you gasp. "You're making it difficult to stay in control," she breathed against your skin, her breath hot and ragged.

"Good," you simply say.

Your words make her pause, her mouth still against your neck. You can feel her smirk, a mix of irritation and amusement as she laughs, "You do realise," she purred, her voice low, "that I could have you begging on your knees right now if I wanted?"

"Yeah, but..." your hand moves over her clit to trace circles, "you really don't want me to stop this, do you?" A shudder runs through her body, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again to lock with yours. Her breath catches, a stifled gasp escaping her. She tries to hold on to her composure. "Not... fair," she manages to say, her voice shakier than before. You smirk, your fingers continuing to move down to enter her, stretching her out perfectly. She lets out a low growl, "God.." Her hips snap against your hand, desperate for more. "Just... like that," she gasps, her body betraying her words. Her hands grip your shoulders, nails digging in, leaving little moon crescents in your skin. It is beyond clear she has lost most of her composure.

Her body tenses again, her thighs trembling slightly around your hand. Her eyes are dark, clouded over with desire, her breaths coming in short, uneven gasps. "Don't stop," she whispers, the words barely a breath.

"I wasn't planning to," you tease.

"Shut up," she mutters, but there's no real venom in her words, just a hint of desperation that betrays how badly she wants you. Her hands slide down from your shoulders to your biceps, holding onto you like a lifeline. "Who knew," she grunts, her voice catching.

"Knew what?"

"That you could..." her sentence cut off with a moan, "reduce me to this." She manages to gasp out the words between ragged breaths, her body arching into your touch. You can feel how close she is, her body strung tight like a bowstring, ready to snap. "Just... keep going.." she practically pleads.

You keep going, your fingers dancing over exactly the right spot, driving her higher and higher until-

Her head falls back, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she comes undone. Her body shivers against you, her nails digging into your arms. Her limbs tremble, her head dropping forward to rest against your shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. "You..." she breathes.

"I, what?" you retort, a wide grin playing on your face. She lifts her head, her eyes meeting yours, still swimming in a heady mix. "Why is that look so damn attractive on you?" she mutters, still riding her high while her hands still grip your arms tightly.

You laugh, "What am I, Nat?"

"Annoying," she mutters, her eyes narrowing. "Possibly aggravating," she continues, her breathing slowing down slightly. But despite her words, her hands don't let go of you, her body still pressed tightly against yours.

"Now why would you say that?" you question, feigning hurt.

"Oh, let me count," she muses, her voice regaining some of its usual sardonic edge. "Your smugness when you get the upper hand, your infuriatingly attractive smile-", you watch her with admiration, a smile forming on your face, "-the fact that you somehow always manage to push all my buttons. Not to mention, you're doing a damn good job of driving me crazy right now." Her words are an equal measure of wanting to strangle you and wanting to kiss you senseless.

As if to prove her point, she pushes against you further, her body moulding to yours. She leans in, her mouth at your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "You have any idea what you do to me, huh?" she whispers, the words a murmur in your ear. "And right now, I don't know if I want to kill you or kiss you."

You pretend to pay attention, your mouth slowly finding her neck again, your tongue tracing a path over her skin. She lets out a soft sigh, a shudder running through her at your touch. Her fingers rake through your hair, a possessive gesture as she holds you against her. She's trying to regain a semblance of control, to take back the upper hand.

But despite her best efforts, her body betrays her. She arches into you, a moan escaping her as your mouth finds that sensitive spot below her ear, "Fuck you, L/N..."

"I was hoping you would," you quip. The rest of the night became a blur, the walls of your memory stained with the hazy scent of sex that lingered throughout her apartment as you found... comfort... in each other for the next day.

But for all the passion, there had been cracks in the foundation of which neither of you could admit to at the time. Natasha had always been an enigma, parts of her locked away so tightly even you couldn’t reach them. And you - you had started to wonder if loving her was just another risk you hadn't been strong enough to take.

Tonight, you had faltered.

Your grip on the rifle tightened, and you exhaled, watching your breath curl into the night air. Natasha was always in control, and somehow, despite everything, you had let her slip through your fingers again.

The rooftop was quiet now, but your thoughts were anything but. Because she wasn’t just an assignment. She never had been. And the next time you saw her, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to pull the trigger - or if she’d already have you in her sights first.

a/n: hope you guys enjoyed, there will be a part 3 (i have more to add to their backstory, i just did not want to put it all in one part ;)) the smut will continue!

[yandere-lotus]

Yandere!Hades Headcanons {Record of Ragnarok Version}

Another repost from my previous blog!

I wanna sit on his lap fr

One of the safest ones, I can tell you that.

Hades is loving, protective and loyal. A bit possessive at times as well.

He'd never force himself onto you, but the thought has come to his mind once in a while when you refuse.

Of course he'll spoil you. He is the king of the underworld, and his queen deserves only the best, right? From beautiful clothing to sparkling jewellery, you name it, he'll gladly give you it.

You were probably told to deliver something to him by Zeus. Hades may have liked you the first few times he met you.

Of course, Zeus notices his brother's likening towards you and purposely sends you to him and only you.

Hades could've sworn he felt his heart flutter at your beauty the first time you both met. And you were so kind to him.

Now he expects to see your pretty face every time he hears about someone entering the underworld.

He knew you were starting to develop feelings for him so he thought of an idea.

He purposely slipped some pomegranate seeds in some of the food he offered you, to which you politely declined.

You gave in when he wouldn't stop insisting. You ate the food, not knowing the loving smile he sent you. When you tried to leave, you couldn't.

You tried to convince Hades to let you go, but to your surprise, he pulled you into his arms and stroked your back.

"Won't you spend eternity with me, my beloved?~"

[sojuyae]

verdict of heaven

summary: (Oda's pen danced across the paper. A single stroke at a time, he crafted him, shaping him into something magnificent, something that shone like the sun. But as quickly as he had breathed life into him, your existence had taken precedence over all else.) 

dazai osamu / reader

notes: mild yandere themes, this is ummm after PM! Dazai? but before ADA? unhealthy relationships, dazai bathes you, dependency

"Is the water too cold for you, dear?” Dazai asks, drawing out the vowels of the endearment like he used to.

He adjusts his seat next to the bath tub before dipping his hands in the water, his bandages soaking as he cups the liquid, his lithe fingers almost making contact with your sides. “I think it’s fine.” He replies to his own question after moments of your silence. 

(You don’t understand why he’s so insistent in taking care of you.)

You look down on the water, its clarity enabling you to glimpse beyond where your arms burst with vibrant colors of purple blue and faded yellow — colors you used to when looking up the sky — colors that were once emblematic with something beautiful. 

(You’re simply an individual who was once together with someone who had been special to him.)

Yet, these wounds are not from Dazai, and he has no intention to cause harm to you; it drives you insane — when you look at these marks, all they accomplish is to serve as a reminder of what you brought about to yourself when you refuse his help.

(A dear friend he had been to Dazai, and a lover to yours.)

Lukewarm water is poured on your back, cascading down the tub, inciting ripples. Dazai’s ungloved hand trails his name with his fingertips, warmth imprinted in each letter despite the coolness of his skin. “You’re awfully quiet these days.” He stops, the initials still searing. The way the soft pads on his hands treat you delicately pains you so. 

Then, you feel soap being lathered gently on your back, in repetitive, circular motion. 

These are the same hands that wield a gun, and these are the same hands that used to bring you a rose after your work — "From him," he would murmur, and you shouldn't have dismissed the notion that Oda would be lazy enough to make Dazai deliver a single rose to you. 

Knowing that the same hands can be used for a variety of purposes and that their nature is just as complex and paradoxical as the individual to whom they correspond is an alienating experience.

As if used to your silence, he continues on his task, The soap frothing as he generously squeezes more of the thick substance over his hands, an overwhelming scent of rosemary — the same one he uses — pervades the room. He rubs his palms together, making a bubble of foam and suds that shortly spreads between his fingers, before smearing it all over your back.“

“Talk to me [Name],” Dazai drawls, a playful huff escaping his lips, his hands now on your arms — he must’ve hated your silence; his fingers now digging on your back. “I miss your voice, you know?“

“There was no need for you to do this,“ You start, voice hoarse after hours of not talking. The suds slip down your forearms, leaving a moist trail in their wake. His hands working the soap into the crook of your elbows, your body limp to his advances. “Oda never asked you to.“

His hands stop at their movements. A strange silence pervaded the room, and there was a palpable sense of tension. Your ears hurt from the agonizing silence. It seemed as though the walls themselves were closing in on you as the air was so weighted with tension. The stillness persisted, lingering over the room like a foreboding cloud.

Then, Dazai gently placed his head on your shoulder, his soft locks of chocolate tickling your neck as he absorbed the warmth of your skin. He didn't give any thought whether your shoulders were soaked. An intimate act for who you both are. Too delicate. Too tender.

“Oda has nothing to do with this,“ You can feel his lips curl up into a smile from behind. “It is of my own volition.“ 

[vespidphoenix]

Entirely at your service

Tag list: @fanaticsnail @turtletaubwrites @weaversofnulbundin

It's Sanji's turn to stay on the Thousand Sunny while the rest of the Straw Hats explore a new island, so he makes his way up to the crow's nest for his watch. He is pleasantly surprised in more ways than one by what, or rather who, he finds up there.

Notes: NSFW, minors begone, lots of swearing, friends to lovers, porn with feelings, idiots in love, chubby OC, some angst, lots of fluff, praise kink, breast worship, consent really is sexy, inappropriate(?) use of observation haki, etc; word count 6.3k

AN: Baby's first fan fiction! Ya girl can have a little a shameless self-insert, as a treat. I've only seen OPLA and I'm not past the East Blue in the manga/anime yet, but I've done my best to keep everything consistent with canon.

AN 2: I use French as the language of the Celestial Dragons, and both Sanji and Amy are fluent. Most of the time, I'll put the English words in brackets at the end of the paragraph, but there are some recurring phrases that I'll leave untranslated: mère bleue is 'blue mother', as in Mother Ocean; merde is 'shit'; mon amour, chérie, and ma chère are endearments

Chapter One: you are here! | Next chapter | Masterlist

Edit: read this chapter on ao3!

(Banner courtesy of @cafekitsune)

As soon as the hatch leading to the crow’s nest clangs shut, Sanji sets his snack tray on the floor mats and collapses with a dramatic groan. 

“Fuck me raw,” he sighs.

“As appealing as that sounds, that’s gonna have to wait another couple days per Chopper’s advice,” a feminine voice deadpans behind him.

Sanji sits upright with a start, nearly knocking over his water bottle. “Mère bleue!” he exclaims as he turns to face his crew mate; “for some reason I thought you were in the landing party today.”

Amy’s reply is drowned out by the pounding of Sanji’s heart when he blinks and notices just how casually she is dressed. He recognizes her sarong as a recent gift from a grateful cloth merchant—he would stand by the assertion that everything looked good on Nami, the original recipient, but he’d have to agree with her that it suited their crew’s interpreter better—and the crocheted halter top as Amy’s own handiwork. He feels a sudden itch to find out for himself just how soft a yarn she chose for this particular work of art…

For lack of a mirror, Amy could not see what her face looked like; but she imagined that if she could, her eyes would be wide and sparkling with mischief. It’s certainly the feeling she always seems to get whenever she’s face-to-face with the handsome blond before her: a grin pressing at her cheeks to escape through the seam of lips pressed together, eyelids spread as if to take in more of him.

(Sometimes, she reckons she could spread other parts of herself for that purpose, if she thought him willing to put his money where his mouth always seems to go.)

“I’m not complaining, mind you,” she continues to say, “but this is the third—no, fourth time in a row!”

Sanji gulps and shakes the slightly-glazed expression from his face. “I’m sorry, can you say that again? I was…distracted by your beauty.” He winks one piercing blue eye, and skepticism be damned, she feels heat creeping over her body and pooling between her legs.

Amy rolls her eyes and fidgets with her sarong in lieu of making a snarky comment about blindfolds.

“As I was saying while you were ogling me, I was going to be one of the landing party, but Nami insisted on having Usopp join her in mapping the island because my handwriting is so much better than his, so I should be the one to help you with inventory. She’s not wrong, per se, but this is the third or fourth time in a row this has happened, and part of me wants to call bullshit.”

“Part of you? What about the rest of you?” Sanji asks, resolutely fixing his gaze on Amy’s eyes instead of letting it drift to her bust or the soft rolls of her exposed torso.

This time it’s Amy’s turn to deliver a blush-inducing wink. “The rest of me is simply happy to be spending time with you.”

“Well, lucky for us, sweetheart, I took the liberty of doing inventory earlier this morning so that Miss Nami would have a grocery list,” Sanji replies after taking a deep breath, “so I am…entirely at your service.” 

Entirely at your service. The words tickle Amy as she takes in Sanji’s shirtless form, supine once more and sporting that megawatt grin. As her gaze trickles down from his abs to those steel-hard thighs, she can’t even bring herself to be annoyed by how smug he looks; Mother Ocean knows how handsome he knows he is, how hard he’s worked to earn those well-toned—

“Have I rendered you speechless, mademoiselle?”

Sanji’s voice, sultry and teasing, interrupts her train of thought.

Entirely at your service.

Sanji knows he’s close to some sort of victory when Amy’s face flushes even more deeply and she still doesn’t answer right away. There’s something uniquely thrilling about fencing with words and looks the way Mosshead trains with Wado Ichimonji—maneuvering, testing, anticipating, parrying, scoring—and he reckons it has to do with the way both parties win something if one goes about it correctly.

He watches and sits up as Amy walks around to his front before she settles next to the tray of snacks. His heart thumps harder in his chest the same way that foolish thing does every time they’re in such close proximity, not quite touching but close enough that he wouldn’t even need to fully extend his arm were he to caress her cheek—

“You don’t need to sit up on my account, handsome. Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer later, but right now maybe I’ll serve you some—how does that sound?” Amy plucks a single grape from the cluster and holds it above his mouth.

Maybe I’ll serve you some.

It’s not often Sanji allows himself to contemplate what he might do with such an offer. As a child, he’d served in order to live; as an adolescent and now as an adult, he lives to serve. But sometimes it occurs to him that letting someone serve him instead can itself be an act of…well…service.

(It will take some time before he allows himself even to think the word ‘love’ in place of ‘service’, and longer still before he allows himself to speak it; but it’s there, waiting like a daffodil bulb in early March for safe conditions to bloom.)

There will be time for Sanji to unpack all of this later, when a beautiful woman is not offering him a grape that looks as sweet and delicious as the person holding it, looking at him with the inviting heat of an onsen—or perhaps it is the sort of hunger that no amount of grapes can quench but he might be able to satisfy anyway. 

All Blue forbid he keep a lady waiting. He lowers himself back onto the floor mats and opens his mouth.

“Good boy,” Amy teases in her best attempt at a sultry purr, frowning when Sanji gives her a strange look and shifts uncomfortably instead of rolling his eyes. “Sorry, does my femme fatale impression need work? Too over-the-top, not campy enough, too demeaning?”

“No, that was—no, no, you’re fine,” he replies, suddenly a little breathless. “How about that grape?”

If Amy notices the hunger filling both his mind and his gym shorts, she mercifully does not comment on it.

There’s a look in Sanji’s eyes that, if she didn’t know better, Amy might call naked desire, and the idea renders her dizzy with want, or it could be dehydration—she’s not sure, not in this weather. She drops the grape in Sanji’s waiting mouth, pats his jaw, and gets up to let a breeze in through a window.

She can hear the slight frown in Sanji’s voice when he calls, “Are you alright, darling? Can I get you something to drink? I think I saw a fountain somewhere…”

“You’re not beating the waiter allegations from Zoro anytime soon, are you?” Amy chuckles, the cooler air having relieved her flustered state.

“He can call me a scullion for all I care; it’s a small price to pay to see you satisfied.” The chef curses under his breath; there are no spare cups up here, so sharing his canteen will have to suffice. He brings it to Amy with an apologetic smile.

She takes a sip and smiles gratefully, and allows her eyes once again to wander over Sanji’s chiseled body. “I have a tall glass of water to drink from, and that’s a good place to start.”

Sanji draws a sudden breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Keep talking like that, and we might not get to finish the snacks I brought up.”

A wicked grin spreads over Amy’s face, and Sanji knows he’s fallen into his own trap.

“How about I help you finish your snack, and you help me finish mine?”

He groans and tilts his head back, and the creeping heat that became smoldering want is stoked into flame by the huskiness of his voice, by the way his neck seems further exposed, there for the kissing—

“Say the word, Amy, and all of it is yours.”

Amy merely smiles. She steps past him, hooking an arm around the far side of his waist as she goes; when he spins around to face her once again, she tugs on the hand suddenly holding hers.

“You gonna have a seat or what?” she asks, nodding toward the tray.

A moment’s hesitation, and Sanji steps forward into the gap between them.

“Are you gonna call me a good boy if I do?” he asks almost under his breath, just above a whisper.

They’re standing so, so close together now, Sanji is sure Amy can feel his breath on her forehead and the place where his shorts are almost too tight to contain him—because she might have called him a tall glass of water, but to him her eyes are Dressrosi kahlua, and he is so drunk on her gaze he would confess to a lot more than his longings, just for another shot.

“I can call you anything you like,” she breathes, “when I am entirely at your service.”

Their lips meet now in a kiss that, for all the repartee and flirtation that preceded it, is gentle and unhurried, a moment to be savored. After a few moments they pull apart, all smiles, long enough for Sanji to remark:

“I’m pretty sure that’s supposed to be my line.”

The pair dissolve into giggles and quick pecks as Sanji finally lays himself down beside the snacks.

To his left, recumbent and supporting herself on one arm, Amy realizes her mistake and gestures to the tray. "Would you mind passing me those?" she asks.

"I thought you were supposed to be serving me," he replied with a mock pout and still-twinkling eyes. 

"I was always taught it was impolite to reach directly across someone's personal space." Amy raises an eyebrow, still looking amused.

Gently, tentatively, as if reaching out to pet a cat, Sanji places his left hand on the small of her back. The hitch in Amy's breath at his touch and the way her eyes widen send a tingling sensation down his spine, straight to his groin. He flashes her the most charming smile he can muster.

"Chérie, in case I haven't made it clear, I want you in my personal space; and unless I am reading you wrong, in which case I apologize sincerely..." He begins to remove his hand.

"No, no, keep doing that—"

(Amy almost doesn't recognize that plaintive voice as her own, but the way his broad palm spread across her back and the soothing way he moved his thumb in little circles have seared themselves into her mind like an addiction.)

Sanji, that smug, sexy bastard, grins and does as he is told.

“…if I am not mistaken, you want me in your personal space, too.” 

Amy is speechless for a moment with an embarrassment she can’t quite explain, but she knows exactly how to get back at Sanji. With his hand back in its place holding her, she smiles sweetly and says:

“Thank you…”

—she moves not only to reach across him for the food, but also to straddle him entirely, which she is sure was his plan to begin with; but then she leans her head close to his, and her smile turns impish—

“…or should I say ‘good boy’?”

Pulling her waist closer with one hand and pushing himself up from the floor with the other arm, Sanji kisses Amy again, trailing along her jawline with an unmistakable urgency.

“Mon amour,” he pleads, “laisse-moi te montrer ce que tu m’inspires…” [Let me show you what you inspire in me...]

“Ho-hold on, lover boy,” Amy gasps, giving the smallest yelp when his hand squeezes a plush asscheek and presses her body against his hardness. “Don’t forget what you came here to do. We don’t—fuck—we don’t waste food.” She pushes against Sanji’s chest and hopes he can see the sympathetic reluctance in her face.

He whimpers. Sanji whimpers, and the sound of it is almost enough to break her resolve; but she knows that if he loved anything in the world more than women, it would be food alone. She presses her forehead to his and a gentle kiss to his nose.

“We don’t waste food.”

If Sanji didn’t know better, he’d think he was dreaming. If he’s dreaming, then woe betide the person who wakes him up, he thinks.

The afternoon sun backlights Amy’s head like a halo, and the breeze through the window causes her brown hair to flutter like a curtain or a sacred veil. Sanji thanks whatever deities are listening—for surely the vision above him is divine in source as well as appearance—for every person before him who fumbled their chance at the privilege that is now his. Hell if he knows what a rejected-princeling-turned-pirate-cook could possibly offer that is worthy of a goddess like this; but he would devote himself to her, be her high priest, beg her to take him as her throne—anything for the heaven in her embrace, if she would only let him.

We don’t waste food.

The reminder nudges Sanji out of his angst, and he grins. “Let’s have those snacks, then, before we get carried away and fill up on something else.”

He gives Amy one more kiss on her lips, chaste yet searing, and lets her go.

The absence of his hand on her waist feels like a loss, until she sits back to reach for the grapes and feels something pressing below her tailbone. She exchanges a knowing smile with the man pinned beneath her, handsome as a demigod.

“You know, if we share those snacks, they’ll be gone faster,” he muses, before dropping his voice even lower. “Then you and I can have our ways with each other.”

“Someone’s eager.” Amy winks and picks up a piece of bruschetta.

“Eager to please you, eager to serve you, eager to feel you in the throes of bliss—yes, I am eager, and you deserve an eager lover, Amy.”

Amy looks stunned. Sanji gestures to the bread slice in her hand.

“Mind telling me how that bruschetta tastes?” he asks. “I used a different combination of cheese and seasoning since we couldn’t find any mozzarella in the last port.”

You deserve an eager lover.

Amy knows this to be true, knows that a lack of sex is better than mediocre sex; but knowing is one thing, and hearing a would-be lover echo the sentiment is another. Not only that: Sanji says it with such conviction, as if pleading with her to believe it too. It's refreshing. Arousing.

So...maybe she leans forward a bit more than necessary when she brings a morsel to Sanji's waiting mouth, and delights in the way his noises of appreciation seem to be as much for the heft of her breasts as for the acidic tang of the diced tomatoes. Maybe she grinds her bottom on his clothed cock just a little when she reaches for another handful of grapes, and smiles with the knowledge that his moaning isn't only for the bursts of sweetness on his tongue. Maybe she is uncommonly thorough when licking the sticky tangerine juice off his fingers.

Entirely at your service.

Maybe I’ll serve you some.

Swimming as their heads are with heady lust, it takes Sanji and Amy by surprise when they find the snack tray empty. They stare at it in silence for a long moment, before—

“Should I, uh—”

“That went more—”

“No, sorry, you go—”

“You go—”

Sanji sits up, laughing, and Amy kneels in front of him, head cocked to one side.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms on you, or know whether Zoro keeps any up here?” Amy asks quietly.

“Hm? I think Mosshead keeps all his in his belt thing; Franky’s shooting blanks and exclusive with Miss Robin, so they don’t need any—”

“Wait, how does Franky know…”

“Apparently the Surgeon of Death also does vasectomies from time to time—wish I’d thought of that the last time we ran into them.”

“Damn. But do you have any?” Amy asks, leaning closer and poking him gently.

Sanji sighs deeply. “Don’t got any rubbers on me, but I keep some in the bunk room…”

“Hmmm, mais je ne peux plus attendre.” With her left hand on his right cheek, Amy pulls Sanji in for a lingering kiss. “J’ai besoin de toi maintenant.” [but I can't wait anymore; I need you now]

“Fuck, Amy,” Sanji groans between hungry, open-mouthed kisses, “how’m I supposed to resist you when you talk to me all sweet like that?” He slides a hand just above the waist of her sarong for emphasis, and cautiously slips a couple fingertips between fabric and skin.

Amy allows her fingernails to lightly scrape his skin as her free hand finds his spine; the hand already on his face threads through his hair. “You’re not supposed to resist me,” she murmurs into his jawline as she pulls his head back to expose his neck. “You’re supposed to forget about that snack tray, forget about our crewmates”—she places a cluster of kisses along his neck—“and enjoy some time alone with your lover—”

Your lover. The words send shivers coursing over Sanji’s skin.

“—just…enjoy yourself for a while.” She looks up at him through half-lidded eyes and allows one hand to drift down to his waistband.

“Well, when you put it like that—merde, ça me sens bien—let me at least put a towel down for us?” Sanji reluctantly extracts himself from Amy, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand when he catches a pout on her lovely face. [that feels good]

“Make it quick, mon amour…vraiment, j’ai besoin de toi…” [truly, I need you]

Sanji pulls a couple towels from a nearby rack, drapes the larger one so that it flows from the bottom step onto the floor, and sets the smaller one beside it. Approaching Amy, he holds a hand out to her with the air of a gentleman at a ball asking a lady to dance. She takes it and pulls herself up to stand in front of him.

“We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” she asks with an adoring smile.

Sanji cups her face in both of his hands and looks her in the eyes. “We can stop at any time and it won’t cause problems between us, y’know that, right? I want this to be enjoyable for both of us.”

Amy lets her eyes flick down to Sanji’s parted lips before meeting his gaze. “What would really be enjoyable right now is you kissing me…”

“So needy,” he teases, but obliges Amy anyway.

“‘Needy’? The love cook calls me ‘needy’?” she replies with mock outrage. “You’re the one who tricked me into straddling you and got so horny over a simple pet name that you reverted to Celestial!”

Sanji gives her a mischievous smile and another peck. “You stepped into the trap very willingly, though, didn’t you?” Another kiss, lingering a moment, and he adds: “And I know for a fact you loved it when I switched languages.”

“Quoi d’autre peux-tu faire avec ta langue, hmm?” Amy whispers against Sanji’s lips. [What else can you do with your tongue]

“S’il te plaît, chérie,” he whispers in kind, his fingers dancing lightly along one arm as he lifts it to his shoulder, “je peux te démontrer…” [If it please you, I can demonstrate]

Suddenly he bends down, and with a grunt he lifts Amy by her thighs, one on either side of his waist. He sets her down on the towel.

No sooner does Sanji let go of her legs than Amy is on him, gripping his face with both hands and kissing him voraciously. 

“That’s so—ungh—so fucking hot, Sanji,” she moans. “Fuck, you’re strong.”

“You’re not that heavy, are you?” Sanji manages to say between kisses—not that he’s complaining. “Ten stone, twelve?”

“Fourteen last I checked,” Amy murmurs into his chin. “You’re so good at what you do, I’m always hungry for more.”

Sanji chuckles at her double entendre. “Fourteen’s nothin’, long as I let my legs do the work.”

“Definitely the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen.” Amy sucks lightly at the base of Sanji’s neck, and almost erases his train of thought completely.

“Merde—since your own, of course, right?” He places his hands on her knees and ever-so-slowly moves them upward.

“Mmm, naturally,” Amy murmurs, more interested in Sanji’s collarbone.

“Are you even listening right now?” Sanji asks, grinning with amusement as he pulls away. He laughs when Amy makes a whining noise and chases him with her lips.

“Your tongue is doing way too much talking, lover boy. Starting to think maybe you’re all talk.”

Sanji narrows his eyes.

Before Amy has time even to discern anything from his smile, Sanji’s gripping the back of her head in one hand and nudging her mouth open with his tongue. His other hand slides higher along her thighs, tantalizingly close to where she suddenly realizes she needs his touch the most. She moans into Sanji’s hungry mouth, the noise sounding more like a whimper than she would have liked to admit were she clear-minded; but her senses are consumed with him, and she can’t bring herself to care. His appreciative groans are like held notes on a saxophone; he smells of musky cologne and sweat in a way that registers as the essence of virility in the back of her mind; he electrifies her skin with the slightest contact; she can taste fruit and spice on his tongue, and—

“Sanj, there’s something metal in your mouth, is that a piercing or…?”

Amy leans back to peer into Sanji’s grinning mouth, and sure enough, the frenulum is pierced with a horseshoe bar.

She puts her arms around his neck and pulls him close again. “You know, I’d heard you described as having a silver tongue,” she teases, her lips a hair’s breadth from his, “but I didn’t think Nami and Usopp were being serious.”

Sanji kisses her again, delicate and sweet like a meringue. “It’s surgical steel, love, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He chuckles and Amy rolls her eyes fondly.

“Now, why don’t we go back to your talent show?” she suggests.

“A show, hmm? I’ve never tried exhibitionism, but we can talk kinks later, sure.”

“You know what I meant!” Amy laughs, giving Sanji’s shoulder a playful backhand.

“Oh, yes, that’s right: the talent show in which I”—Sanji places one more kiss on Amy’s smiling mouth—“pleasure this lovely lady”—he whispers before kissing behind her ear and sliding his hands to the laces of her top—“with my tongue until she”—loosens the knot holding the halter-neck in place and nips an exposed shoulder, prompting her to buck against him—“begs me to make her cum on my face.” He presses his face into her cleavage, and looks up to gauge her expression. “That one?”

Amy combs a hand through Sanji’s corn-silk hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gasps with something like awe marbled with need. His lust-darkened eyes peering up at her from between her breasts might be the most erotic thing she’s ever seen.

Entirely at your service.

You deserve an eager lover.

“Oh, Sanji…” she sighs and leans back against the bench. “Please, yes, I need it…

“…do I get to serve you after?”

The question is so airy and quiet that Sanji almost doesn’t catch it, occupied as he is with the scent of Amy’s perfume and the solemn task of unbuttoning her from the other side. “What’s that, darling?”

Amy holds his face between her hands and pets his flushed cheeks with her thumbs. “Do I get to return the favor once you’ve made good on those wonderful things you said you want to do to me?”

“You may not need to. I’m pretty, ah, worked up right now—might be that I’ll follow you over the edge when you cum for me.” Sanji kisses her palm and, taking hold of her hand, guides it along the faint trail of hair leading to where he needs her touch the most.

Amy wants to press the question further, but contents herself with pressing her hand to the bulge in Sanji’s shorts. She gasps in wonder at his size and the needy cry that pours from his lips.

“Let’s find out for sure, shall we?” She turns her back to Sanji and lifts her hair out of the way.

Seating himself on the bench beside Amy, Sanji can reach the buttons just fine, but he welcomes the chance to lavish her neck with a flurry of kisses. He smiles against her skin at her giggling, and thinks of how quickly the sound is becoming one of his favorites.

Amy’s breath, already shaking, hitches when she feels her top come loose, and again when Sanji sucks lightly on the skin joining her neck to her shoulders.

“Sanji, please…”

“Shhh, darling, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs as his hands snake over the bare skin of her waist to cover hers in the front. “Your body is so soft, so beautiful. I love it.

“Can…can I just…feel it for a moment first? Explore it, admire it for a bit before I ravish you?” Sanji continues, tracing with his fingers the places that had previously been covered.

“Just as long as your body stays on mine.” Amy sighs dreamily and leans against him, eyes closed, happy to let him fill her senses once again.

There has, historically, been precious little in Sanji’s life that could be described as soft or tender. Such is a hard-working life at sea, to say nothing of what came before his stint on the Orbit; even on such a well-appointed ship as the Thousand Sunny, piracy is piracy, and the oceans swallow the weak. So when something comes Sanji’s way that could be construed as even the vaguest promise of devotion, he has learned to seize it, to enjoy it while he can, before the Blue Mother’s waves inevitably carry it out of reach.

He does not seize Amy, for she is not a pipe dream or a fantasy: she is substantial, in multiple senses of the word, generous in the warm plushness of her body and likewise in the beauty of her soul. He paces himself, like a man who has known starvation followed by plenty; though he does have to take a steadying breath when she sets aside the bralette and turns toward him, now bare-chested. One hand goes to her heartbeat, one to her shoulder, trailing downward and leaving a tingling heat in its wake.

“I want to figure you out, chérie, before I take you apart,” Sanji rasps in Amy’s ear as he engages his haki.

Amy has a hunch she’s in for some of the best sex of her life. Not that she has a great deal of first-hand experience for the love cook to exceed—men did not often stay in her life long enough for attraction to develop—but even if Sanji is as much of a serial womanizer as Nami and Zoro make him out to be, he has already proven attentive and empathetic enough to be above average. It’s not his skill she’s worried about—

The casual flick of a thumb across a now-stiffened nipple jolts Amy back into the moment with a squeal.

“Fuck, Sanji, that feels so good, do it again…”

He obliges, of course he does, and pleasure like an electric shock goes straight to her cunt, suddenly flooded with slick. She arches her back, leaning forward into his touch; and he must have heard the needy impatience in her wordless moan, because he pulls her flush with him and nibbles her ear. 

“Où d’autre, where else do you need me?” Sanji murmurs. “J’ai besoin de te plaîre…” [Where else; I need to please you]

Where doesn’t she need him? Amy wonders. “Everywhere, babe, jus’—fuck—everywhere. My neck, my hands, my tits, need you inside, everywhere.”

Sanji’s face lights up like he’s received the best news of his life, and he kisses her again. 

“As my lady commands.”

As he nibbles at her ear and her neck, Amy can’t resist rolling her hips against him, flush as she is with his hardened abdomen and his cock, and spirits it feels so good—

“Amy, my love,” Sanji pleads, “I don’t want to cum yet, let me do this for you—”

“But Sanji…”

“Amy. Don’t you want me to keep my promise to you?”

He stands and pulls her up as well, and continues: “Don’t you want to find out what my tongue can do? I should think you wouldn’t want the talent show to end so early.”

“Your fingers untying my skirt are giving me a mixed signal,” Amy mutters, though her fingers digging out the knots belie the annoyance in her words.

“I’m going to have you lay back for me, darling,” Sanji says as he folds the sarong, “and I want to have a cushion for your beautiful head.” He holds the garment out to her, and he’s looking at her with such tenderness that she feels something clench in her chest. “Your comfort matters to me.”

“And you feeling good matters to me.”

“Tell you what,” Sanji offers as his hands push gently on Amy’s hips, encouraging her to sit. “I get to taste every part of you, and you get to shower me in praise and ‘good boys’ to your heart’s content. How does that sound?”

“And then I get to play with your cock?” she asks, pouting slightly but positioning herself on the towel nevertheless.

Sanji makes a choked gasp. “Merde, yes, then you can play with my cock.”

“Sounds good to me.” Amy leans back and watches as he hems her in, elbows on either side of her shoulders, powerful legs astride her own.

Sanji takes a deep breath and considers what he learns from his haki. Amy shudders almost imperceptibly with each heaving breath; her eyes, wide and dark, dart between his eyes, his lips, his chest, and occasionally his groin. Her back is arched just enough to not have the steps’ wooden lip pressing into her, or perhaps she means to draw his attention back to her sizeable breasts; and her knees are turned outward, as though readying her legs to cage his lower torso close to her own. She smells of jasmine, sweat, and the spiced tang of arousal, so much arousal. 

He can’t wait to taste her. With no dissonance of thought or feeling in her aura to give him pause, the tasting begins.

He starts, quite naturally, with her mouth: lips that capture his sight whenever she has occasion to wear lipstick, staining his fantasies a pomegranate red; gasps and moans that spill from her like an overturned glass of sparkling wine; the lingering taste of sweet words and peppery olive oil on a tongue seeking out its counterpart to pull him closer. When the cruel need for oxygen forces them to pull apart, Sanji and his own clever tongue find the sensitive spot just behind Amy’s ear that he knows will make her nerves sing—

“SANJI, oh gods!” she cries, sure enough—

“Amy, chérie, would you be very offended if I were to leave a souvenir on your skin?” Sanji asks in a husky voice while he has her ear. “A mark of my passion, so to speak?”

Amy does not answer right away and her frenzied groping stills, but her embrace remains steady, which soothes his unease. She’s considering it, Sanji reminds himself.

Finally, she caresses his cheek, and he takes the chance to kiss her inner wrist. “Put them in places that can be covered with ease,” she replies decisively. “Whatever…this is”—for the first time since he found her in the crow’s nest Sanji hears a note of apprehension in her voice—“it’s our treasure, and I’d like to enjoy it that way for a bit before making it known to anyone else.

“We may be Straw Hats, but we are still pirates,�� Amy continues with a smile returning to her face. “I think we’re allowed to be a little cagey about our hidden treasure.”

Whatever this is. Our hidden treasure. Sanji feels something shift in him at Amy’s words—not a jarring shift like a fall or a sudden change of perspective, but a shift like the changing of plans or steering a vessel in a new direction. A shift like soil making way for growing roots.

In the meantime, Sanji’s cock is twitching at the prospect of marking this woman as his, and again with the thrill of keeping a secret. “Such an angel,” he groans into her neck, “such a privilege just to touch you.”

Such a dangerous business, this whole falling-in-love thing, Amy thinks to herself. No, she’s not in love, not with one of the most notorious flirts on the Grand Line, even if he does look like he belongs on a magazine cover instead of a pirate vessel. Even if she isn’t merely imagining the heartbroken look on his face at the words ‘whatever this is’. Even if he is the most caring lover she’s ever had—because that’s just the thing: he does love generously, he loves in defiance of the sire he left behind, he loves and he loves and it would be selfish of her to want some part of it to be hers alone, wouldn’t it? No, she’s not in love with Sanji, but the cliff’s edge is right there, and the call of the void is strong.

“Chérie, have I lost you again? Is everything alright?”

Sanji’s handsome, smiling face is hovering above her chest again. Amy runs her fingers through his hair—he closes his eyes and hums at the sensation—and tucks it behind his ear.

“I was just…distracted by your beauty.” She smiles and winks.

“Using my own lines on me, are you?” Sanji growls in mock annoyance.

“What?! I’m just learning from the best.”

“Flatterer.”

“Clearly flattery works, or else you wouldn’t be straddling a mostly-naked woman right now.” Amy begins to drag one foot along Sanji’s leg for emphasis.

In lieu of an answer, he shudders and trails a finger along the side of one breast, which he lifts toward his mouth. While Amy lets her head fall back against the improvised cushion, he mouths at one pebbled areola with relish and strokes the other with a firm thumb, basking in her babbled praises over the next several minutes.

“That feels so, so good, darling, so good…

“Gods, your tongue is incredible—yes, just like that!”

“Oh, fuck—could let you do just this to me for hours…”

…and Sanji thinks, feeling the way she bucks and tenses under his caresses, he’d be willing to do it, too, his own erection be damned, if he didn’t think muscle cramps on his part would put a damper on her pleasure. If nothing else happens between him and Amy, he could at least go for months touching himself just to this memory.

Mercifully, the sound of a soft chuckle interrupts Sanji’s anxious thoughts before they have a chance to spiral. He leaves off the sucking motion of his tongue and looks into Amy’s half-lidded eyes. “Chérie?” he inquires tentatively.

She again combs his hair back with her fingers, still smiling. “It just struck me as funny, the way you looked like a boy licking his first ice cream cone of the summer.”

Sanji stares a moment before spluttering with indignation. “And what is a man supposed to look like as he is worshiping at his lady’s breasts?” 

Unfortunately, this serves only to make the lady in question laugh harder, albeit with fondness, and touch her forehead to his.

“I don’t know, I don’t know! It felt so good, but when I opened my eyes, there you were, swirling your tongue like you were afraid of letting your mint chocolate chip melt—”

“Melt?!” Sanji echoes, still playfully indignant. “Oh, I’ll make you melt—”

—to which end he pushes Amy back down and renews his ministrations with a vengeance, licking and sucking and nipping the sensitive buds, and tickling her sides. His hands slide lower and lower along her hips until he’s teasing the skin just above her panties; and when she makes no move to bat his hand away, he dips two fingers into the heat of her folds.

Amy never knew sex could be so fun.

Well, no, that’s not quite true; she’s long known, in an intellectual sort of way, that feeling safe and relaxed emotionally is conducive to both having fun and to having good sex. But the wisdom gleaned from others feels like an understatement compared to the euphoria and the anticipation suffusing her right now.

“You—” she pants, smiling, “you’re as good as your word, ah-aren’t you?”

Sanji releases a reddened nipple with a lewd smack.  “And you, love, have been melting for a while already, haven’t you?” He runs a finger along her slit, grinning wickedly at her wetness. 

“Oh fuck, Sanji, keep—keep doing that…”

“Tell me, Amy, is all of this for me?” Sanji all but purrs. Her pussy clenches at the sight of him licking her slick off of his hand and she whimpers.

A whimper is not enough for him: his fingers tease her clit, dancing around but never touching it. He flicks a nipple with his tongue. “I need words, ma chère…” he says.

Amy does not have words, though. There is nothing in Amy’s world save her body, and Sanji’s touch, and pure sensation.

“Answer me,” Sanji insists in a rumbled voice; and when he hears no answer but more wordless whimpering, he bites on Amy’s nipple and strokes her clit at the same time.

“Fuck! SANJI!” she screams, mustering the last two words in her brain as her world turns from pure sensation to white-hot ecstasy.

Likes, reblogs, and replies are appreciated, especially if somehow I fucked up post formatting or my French grammar LOL

[shakespearesdaughters]

The Secret History Theories

I’m currently re-reading Donna Tartt’s The Secret History right now and I have several theories but no one to share them with, so I thought I would put them here to see what you all think!

Richard pushed Bunny. ​

Richard said he hates authors who skip over the grisly parts of their crimes out of shame/embarrassment/guilt but he does it.

He was not only involved in the planning of Bunny’s murder but encouraged it by telling Henry what Bunny told him about the farmers murder knowing that Henry was already thinking about killing him.

While he showed some guilt about the murder afterwards he had no qualms about going through with it and was involved in the planning of it every step of the way.

He had a vested interest in Bunny dying not just to help protect the group but because Bunny knew/implied he knew about Richard’s true background and that he was lying about having money. He would have wanted to keep his secrets. He also wanted to secure his place in the group and what better way to do so than to kill someone.

We don’t know how Bunny died, as Richard purposely skips over this information. The only thing we do know is that Henry walked towards him, Camilla checked to make sure Bunny was dead. But what exactly did Richard do? If Richard didn’t kill Bunny why wouldn’t he tell us how Bunny died? 

​

2. Julian was more involved than Richard either was aware or wanted to admit. 

I think he was the person Camilla remembered seeing at the Bacchanal. He and Henry had spoken before the Bacchanal and Julian had told him to do what was necessary.

Henry got the idea to do the Bacchanal from Julian. Henry and Francis both were interested in acquiring the land with Francis wanting to purchase the house and Henry finding the land sacred. Henry is implied to have spent more time with Julian than the others having been to his home and had private conversations. ​

He also calls Bunny by his nickname for the first time when it came to Bunny’s suicide note which was odd. He said he knew or was able to predict what his students were doing and with how close he was to Henry there’s no way he didn’t know what they were up to. Which is probably why he had to leave and did leave so quickly. 

​

3. Richard was the author of Bunny’s suicide note as a confession. He spent a lot of time with Bunny and with Henry. He could have gotten the paper from either of them. The typewriter was in the study room for anyone to use. ​

Richard was an excellent student and could have written the note convincingly enough to sound like Bunny. It gives him the perfect out in the murder of the farmer because he’s not named once in them and it implicates the group especially Henry. Which could be Richards payback against Henry implicating him to the FBI. Also it’s the only way for Richard to confess just like he is confessing to us with the book for his guilt without having to actually atone for anything.

Richard also flip flops between insisting that Bunny was the author to it being possibly someone else. We also don’t know when the letter was dropped off because Julian doesn’t mention it. But from the way he was acting when he spoke to Richard and Francis and why he initially took it as a joke/brushed it off before speaking with Henry one could infer it was delivered after Bunny’s death. 

​

4. Charles is the only other person who could have written the note because he was also close to Bunny and Richard notes he is an expert forger and the letter is one big middle finger to Henry and the only other person who had a reason to hate/implicate Henry as revenge besides Richard would be Charles. ​

5. Francis is a predator who was possibly abusing Charles and no one in the group seemed to care. He also tried to have sex/ SA Richard and foreshadowed doing it when he said “if you drank as much as he(Charles) does, I daresay I would have been in bed with you, too.” ​

6. A catamount killed the farmer, Henry lied about it so he could manipulate the group and to murder bunny. 

There’s several hints about it being a big cat from Charles bite, to the way the body was found I mean how on earth did they rip open the stomach of a grown man and mutilate him without any weapons? They even go the catamount inn. ​

There would be something so deliciously ironic and really fulfill the themes of it being a Greek tragedy if it had all been a wild animal and Bunny was killed for nothing. ​

​

7. I think Richard was there at the Bacchanal and it was one of the many things he omitted. 

He is a self professed liar, an excellent one at that. He has no problem going where he’s not supposed to as we saw him entering the room and calling the number to find out about the plane tickets Henry purchased. He was following the group around. It wouldn’t be a hard stretch that he followed them to the woods and saw the bacchanal/orgy. 

He would have been upset he wasn’t invited because of his socioeconomic background. And upset that Bunny was invited over him. ​

Camilla thought she saw another person there. Henry thought he saw Dionysus there. Though it could have been Julian it could have also been Richard. ​

He admits he omits things and considered lying about Julian, he romanticizes Henry despite the murder, he easily went along with the murder of Bunny and has a thought of attacking and SAing Camilla and there is an implication he WAS lying about something very important. Which leads up to question what did he lie about? ​

He is not as horrified or concerned like a normal person would be when hearing your new friends just committed a brutal ritualistic murder. I think he was there, either as voyeur/bystander or he actually participated and was afraid Bunny might know or would find out which is why he goes along with it.

[sangoqueenkoko]

ARATAKI ITTO

"not our brightest idea"

fluff

GEO MASTERLIST | DRABBLE MASTERLIST

.

Drabble prompt: page 1: #70 = “not our brightest idea.”

Warnings? Beans. Not really! Unless you’re an Oni. But seriously, there are no warnings.

Contains a mention of Kuki Shinobu, Chiori, The Arataki Gang, and Itto, of course!

825 words.

"Thank you, and have a great day!" you smiled, kindly waving as a customer walked away with their newly bought products from Sailing Breeze, a Mondstadt store. Being from Mondstadt, you were well versed with the local specialities and eager to share them with others. You came to Inazuma to trade your home nation's local specialities with the people of a different nation so they can broaden their horizons.

New and returning customers came every day.

Even if the products did contain beans, you made your own version that doesn't, after witnessing what happened at the Iridori Festival. When I say 'returning customers,' I mean Arataki Itto, the rest of the Arataki Gang, and Kuki Shinobu.

But today, Kuki and the rest of the Gang couldn't make it because the Gang got into trouble, and Kuki had to bail them out. So, instead of being with his friends and suffering her wrath, Itto came to Ritou alone to pick up some orders that Kuki had made in the prior week. With you being friends of the Arataki Gang and the leader himself, they managed to bag some discounts.

"Hey, hey, my compadre!" A familiar voice called out; before you knew it, it was Itto, sauntering over as he casually combed his hair like it was his pride and joy. "Boss says that our order is ready to go! And it was made by the amazing (Y/N) themselves!" he grinned, "So I know that it will be the best ever made!"

"Well, thank you, Itto," you smiled sweetly. "Luckily for you, I had just finished packing it up, and it was ready for pickup just before you came! However, I underestimated the size of this delivery, considering how much was ordered. And it will be too much work to make more than one trip to deliver it to its destination. So I'd say that we need to use a cargo balloon for its safe transportation. That is if you're Okay with returning it to the others yourself?"

He stood silently for a moment as he thought. Looking between you and the distance of Inazuma, pondering how long it would take.

"Alright! It should be no problem!" he said with a laugh, "but you could always come along with me to make sure that the precious cargo doesn't get damaged while I go on ahead and take care of potential threats. That sounds like a deal to me. Deal?"

"Deal."

Soon enough, you met Itto at the edge of Ritou with the Cargo 'slime' Balloon that you hired for the day. Itto, being as strong as he is and insisting he helped you pack the cargo onto the balloon before you double-checked it and set off for the Gang's camp.

The start of the journey went as smoothly as ever. Some playful things even happen because it is better to make them bearable than unbearable. When crossing over a sandy section that leads to Narukami Island, Itto found it funny to splash some seawater on you, but you didn't find it funny much, mainly because your outfit was made by the one and only Chiori, so in return, you splashed water back at him. Just some light-hearted fun.

Later on in your journey, on the same path but in the incoming direction, you both noticed some Nobushi coming your way. Itto was raring to go, as he wanted to fight them. He didn't want the cargo, or more importantly, you, to get damaged. But you insisted he not provoke them, as they could be passive and mean no harm.

But neither of you could take any chances, so you pulled him towards the cargo on the side of the path, behind some bushes, to hide. Because of its purpose, it could withstand such weight, so you pulled Itto into it. Despite his loud protests, shoving a hand over his mouth, you two stayed put and quiet to ensure you weren't found.

It felt like an eternity, but the Nobushi would come over to the stationary cargo, take a look at it, move it around, inspect it and even open the boxes to take a closer look. It took Itto everything not to burst out from inside it and defend you and the cargo, but you didn't let that happen. They were merely curious.

But they soon realised it wasn't very valuable to them, so they left it alone and carried on with their journey, their heavy footsteps eventually fading away.

Taking deep breaths with relief, and also realising how physically close you two were, you quickly jumped out and looked over the cargo. It was fine.

Looking at each other with red cheeks and a light layer of sweat on their faces from the long wait in close proximity. And your feelings for each other would slowly creep up to the surface.

He coughed and scratched the back of his head nervously.

"not our brightest idea."

But thank you to the irl bestie for helping with this idea! This one is for you, girlie, you simp!

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Everyone Has a Talent (Jesper Fahey x Reader)

Request: No (self indulgent)

Pairing: Jesper Fahey x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Nothing except a very flirtatious Zemeni sharpshooter

Summary: Here in Ketterdam, you've finally found a home. Even though it's chaotic, you love your life. You love your friends. When walking through the city to deliver a message for the one and only Kaz Brekker, what happens when you catch your best friend flirting with himself in the mirror?

As you walked through the streets of Ketterdam, you couldn't help but let a flicker of a smile spread across your face. The Barrel could be overwhelming at times, but it was home. You had arrived here at the lowest point of your life; you were orphaned, tired, and hungry. It didn't help that you were also down on your luck. The only way you were able to have a meal in your stomach was when you could afford to swipe scraps from neighboring carts and shops.

You found yourself at the front stoop of the Crow Club a few weeks after your arrival. At first, you thought you had gotten caught for lifting a few kruge from a lady's bag in an attempt to afford some real food. The next thing you knew, you were escorted to the back room awaiting a conference with the Bastard himself. Somehow you had managed to convince both Kaz Brekker and Per Haskell that you were worth the risk. They offered you a deal: five years of service and enough kruge to tide you over to wherever the next adventure took you -- no strings attached. How could you possibly refuse?

You had been working with the Dregs ever since. At some point, you even managed to prove yourself useful enough to be trusted on heists. The night Kaz totally didn't "relocate'' Jan Van Eck's prized De Kappel, you were there. You had run the surveillance during the job. It wasn't the most glamorous of responsibilities, but it still gave you a feeling of purpose. There were times that you would be called upon by Kaz to put together last-minute disguises to take on another job. Although that was incredibly infrequent.

Still, you couldn't complain. Kaz hadn't just given a roof over your head and a steady income; he had given you a family, too. You had started to grow closer to some of the Dregs after a few missions. Jesper Fahey (Kaz's overly flirty and gangly sharpshooter) and Inej Ghafa (Kaz's prized Wraith and...investment?) were two individuals you shared particularly close connections with. You would spend many nights keeping watch and waiting for new shipments to enter the Ketterdam docks. Conversation was bound to happen. At least, with one of them, anyway. Inej mostly kept to herself, only speaking when absolutely necessary.

Jesper was different, though. The two of you would use the time to catch up on what was happening in your lives, commiserating over how dead-ass broke you were, and for you to pester Jesper about his gambling addiction. It didn't matter what you talked about or what job you were on. You just enjoyed being together. One of your favorite conversations in particular was a game you would play. You would plan out these exotic days of adventure for when you could finally leave the busy city and explore. When Jesper had found out you wanted to travel, he encouraged you to save up for a trip.

"You never know when your last day may be," he insisted. "You deserve a trip, love. Treat yourself when this is all over. Just don't forget about us little people."

You'd be lying if you said you hadn't imagined what would happen if you brought Jesper along on your travels. What would your lives look like? Would your dynamic still be the same or would it be different? Would you start a life together? It wasn't that the thought scared you. It was quite the opposite, really. The idea of having a real- an actual life- with Jesper brought a smile to your face every time you thought about it. You just didn't know how he felt about it.

=  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =  =

As you continued your trek, you turned into an alcove where you found your best friend getting lost staring into a side mirror. Jesper was pretending to be some sort of suave gunslinger. Which, while he technically was, it never hurt to see him practice. He always looked so calm and so cool. The thwip of the weapons being removed from the holsters and placed back moments later was almost relaxing. You couldn't allow yourself to get distracted, though. You had a message and you were quite attached to the fingers Kaz had threatened to remove should you not find Jesper.

"Are you just going to stand there all day?" you began, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Jesper grinned back at you through his shiny reflection. "What can I say?" he remarked. "When something looks this good, you need to stop and appreciate the true art."

A laugh escaped your lips. "I can't tell if you're flirting with yourself or the mirror."

"Couldn't it be both, love?" The Zemeni sharpshooter turned around and shot you a wink. "What's the problem with a little self-love?"

"It's a problem when it's distracting you from the task at hand."

"And just what might that be, love?" Jesper moved to place his revolvers back in his holster, resting his hands lazily on top of the handles. He loved those weapons more than life itself. You'd seen him play with them when he was bored, anxious, or plain fidgety. Which, needless to say, was always. It mesmerized you to watch him spin the weapons as if they were mere children's toys. Back and forward, round his index fingers...Saints, the things those hands have done…

You cleared your throat and shook your head to clear your thoughts. Can't afford to get distracted, you reminded yourself. The blush flashing across your cheeks almost caused you to hide. "Uh, Kaz needs you," you somehow managed to get out.

"He always needs me." It was meant to be a casual careless statement, but you could sense the subtle presence of pride laced in his voice. "I think he could spare a few minutes."

You stood there in silence for a minute, unsure of what to do next. The right thing to do would be to go find Kaz. But you and Jesper rarely had time together outside of heists…

"Come here."

You blinked. "What?"

Jesper gave you a small smile and pointed to a spot on the ground beside him. "I said come here."

You shoved your hands deep in your pockets and shrugged. "I'm fine right here, thanks," you responded. "What's the problem?"

"I want to show you something." He was determined when he wanted something. You had to give him that. You were surprised when he sighed and grabbed your arms, gently pulling you closer to the mirror. Jesper pointed to the mirror. "Look."

"Okay...that's me?" You were now confused. "What's wrong?"

Jesper gestured with his hands. "You look tense," he remarked. “Make a face at it. Just do something to relax."

"How can I relax?! I tried, but there's just too much to do!" you exclaimed in a bitter huff. "You make it look easy. What's the secret?"

Your friend made a little show by leaning down as if he was about to whisper in your ear. You had to repress a shiver as his breath fanned against your cheek. He was so close right now, his chest pressed against your back. It was an intimate feeling, but you had to stop yourself before you made a mistake that ruined everything. "Afraid it's a trade secret, love," he mused with a dramatically hushed tone and wink. "It's just yet another Jesper talent."

"I just wish I even had a single talent."

This confession seemed to surprise Jesper, whose eyes widened slightly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he said. "You have a great number of talents."

You gave a small shrug. "I make clothes and I hide in the shadows," you relented. "Nothing as groundbreaking as shooting a guy's hat off from twenty feet."

"Actually, it was twenty five, but..." Jesper caught himself when he recognized your giving him a steely glare. He cleared his throat. "That's besides the point. I'm sure we can find something for you." Suddenly, his dark complexion shone with an unexpected glow. "I've got it!"

You watched in the mirror as he reached into his holster and pulled out one of his prized mother-of-pearl encrusted revolvers. The cold metal was a shock against your skin as Jesper pressed the weapon securely in your palm. "Try this. I will have you know that if you break it, I may need to reconsider this partnership." Even though his tone was serious, you knew Jesper was joking...possibly. "Now, here. Spin it like this...now like that..."

The two of you spent the next twenty minutes practicing revolver spins in the alley mirror. There were a few times where you would end up losing your grip on the gun, but Jesper was standing right by you to make sure it wouldn't be too detrimental to the design. You were so engrossed in the lesson that you almost didn't notice how much your smile had grown from before. Your cheeks had a tint of pink against them due to Jesper's close proximity, but you knew it would fade in a second. You just wanted to enjoy this moment.

When you finally managed to get a full series of rotations, you jumped for joy. Without thinking, you quickly pulled Jesper into a kiss. It was a short-lived moment, but the contact set off a bushel of butterfly flutters in your stomach. "I'm so sorry!" you were quick to apologize. Kissing your best friend was one thing, but your coworker? That was a whole other set of wrong. "It won't happen again."

"...Why not?"

You froze, eyes locking onto Jesper's grey hues. "What?"

"What was so bad about kissing me?" he asked. "I didn't think it was half bad."

He liked it? your mind asked you. That's certainly surprising. "Well," you tried to explain. "We do work together."

"I do think I'd be able to exhibit control, love. You on the other hand..." Jesper held up his hands in mock apology, which only had a well placed smack sent in his direction. “Ow! Don’t hit me!”

"I can kiss you! I don't have a problem with it." You really needed to think before you spoke.

Before you could run away, you felt Jesper's hand graze your left cheek. You could feel the stingingly cold metal of his colorful rings. His fingers were calloused, yet soft after all his work in the Club and the field. "Then how about we try that again?"

Surprised, you nodded silently and his lips were over yours once more. The two of you stayed there for as long as possible without losing oxygen. The only problem with that was you never heard Kaz approach with his cane. "Jesper," he said. "We need to go. Now." Kaz paused for a moment. "And tell your kissing pal that when the two of you are done, they're needed to collect some coin from the vault."

With a sigh against your lips, Jesper pulled away. "Right away, boss," he replied.

"This better not affect your performances," Kaz warned. He then nodded and limped away with his cane clutched tightly in his hand. It was just you and Jesper again. Alone. In the alleyway.

"Well, love," Jesper apologized. "I hate to kiss and run, but I"m afraid I'm needed." He pecked your cheek quickly before shrugging on his coat. It made your cheeks flush again. "We'll continue this when I get back, yeah?"

You could only wordlessly nod in agreement, causing him to give a curt nod as well. "Good." He began to walk away. "Oh, and by the way," he said in a louder tone. "I do think we found your talent."

===============

Author's Note: Okay, so hi. I completely disappeared from the writing circuit forever ago and still haven't completely come back. I wrote this fic almost two years ago when I first got into the Grishaverse fandom. It is posted on my AO3 if you want to see it in its former glory, but I felt it was high time to upload it here. When I found this in my docs, I was kind of surprised at how I captured his character, but I didn't hate it??

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this little snippet of my writing again. If you did, please drop a like and reblog this fic so I know whether or not to bring back my favorite cheeky guy again. I hope to be back to writing some fic soon, as I'm taking a creative writing class this semester in uni, so the ideas should be flowing again!! Make sure to follow so you don't miss a thing -- we're so close to 500 followers, which is insane to me. Can't tell you how grateful I am for each and every single one of my fellow fandom people <3

[cherryelectricboogaloo]

Also Bell lore is intrinsically linked to Bitters lore. Who is Bitters? The other courier. What, you don't know that there's TWO courier six? Fake fan.

Whenever I write Bell lore here I'm waiting with the mousetrap in my other hand like yes yes come closer no no ignore my arm conspicuously hidden behind my back. Now are you ready to hear about The Dual Protagonists—

Writing Fallout New Vegas lore with a friend requires either a compromise or the erasure of one whole courier. A WASTE OF POTENTIAL I say. That's why me and my bestie most beloved (at @caricatureblue ) ended up deciding both our couriers existed, actually, and the platinum chip was put in two separate deliveries. Harder to track and easier to transport, right? (Except Benny had Yes Man. Sorry House, but also not sorry at all House.)

Enters Bitters, and enters Bell. They're two different sides of the same coin and I love that for them so much.

Bitters is from Arroyo. Bitters was supposed to be the next Elder. They're the Chosen One's kid, they're a direct descendant of the Vault Dweller, they were meant for great things. And then the Legion took them on their endless pursuit of Conquest and Subjugation. Bitters spent the most important years of their life under the Legion, witnessing the atrocities AND SUFFERING THE ATROCITIES FIRST HAND. They had a brilliant future ahead of them that was taken from them by the Legion. They were meant for great things and they were deprived of all of that. After escaping the Legion they try to go back to Arroyo, only to find out their mother is long gone and that their aunt wants them gone, lest they try to take her place as the Elder. So, they leave. They become a courier. They try to move on, as much as you can move on from something like THIS + with the Legion on the Mojave's doorstep all this time.

Then there's Bell. Are there important people in her family? Kind of! But they're so far removed from her that she has no idea of who they are, or what they did, or what influence they had on the wasteland. For all intents and purposes, Bell is a nobody. She's the kid of a random British couple that came to America, she's the youngest and her brother is much more outwardly educated and promising than she is, she has no great aspirations in life other than being a courier like her auntie used to be. She's charming enough, but that doesn't change the fact that she's… not really… outstanding, or important, in any way. Unremarkable. She loses all of her family, but being an orphan in the wasteland is the same as a fork in the kitchen. Nothing different from the norm.

Their paths intersect, in the fact they work at the same place and deliver parts of the same packages to the same places, but they never meet before the fatal Free Lobotomy courtesy of Benny.

So you'd expect the obvious, right? Bitters, the lost heir that was meant to take up their mom's mantle would reclaim their spot as Elder of Arroyo, and not only that, they'd also save the Mojave and, no matter which faction they decided to trust, they would be the defacto changing force in the narrative. Meant for great things. It's their destiny. It's what's supposed to happen. Bell, well, she's a helper, right? It's not even funny that her last name is Watson. She's here to be supportive and as a second gun, she's here to highlight Bitters' strengths and to cover for their weaknesses.

But that's… not… what happens.

First and foremost, their relationship of mutual trust and relying on each other? Essential.

Without Bell's insistence on gentleness and kindness and compassion and drive, Bitters would have been aimless, and wouldn't have spared half the people in the wasteland they met. They're angry. So, so angry. They don't want to be, but severe brain damage does that to someone. Bell stays their hand when she sees someone can genuinely change, and helps focus that anger on the intended target (the L E G I O N).

Without Bitters putting their foot down sometimes and reassurances and righteous anger, Bell wouldn't be able to choose anything, and would have let people step all over her all the time. She's afraid, all of the time. Terrified she'll make the wrong choice, that she's incompetent. Bitters pushes her forward when she's too scared to act, and reminds her that sometimes people don't want to change.

Bell thinks Bitters is a genius, and in many ways they are! Even if the brain damage made things harder for them, they're still extremely knowledgeable. They're a Science kid, they're skilled with Medicine, they're resourceful and know how to convince people if they want to, and they're resilient and courageous and strong and how could Bell not think they're perfect? …That's the thing. Bell sees Bitters as this… impossibly Perfect person. Above her, in every way.

AND BITTERS SEES HER THE SAME WAY. Bell is sweet and gentle and compassionate, she can and is willing to talk things out with people every time, she's a fantastic gunslinger, she's knowledgeable in a variety of fields even if she can't articulate it well, and she's always there when they're frustrated with not remembering something, or not being able to do something they used to do well before the Headshot. They see Bell as a Superior.

These two have to work through their tendency to put each other on a pedestal and putting themselves down, but that's something I can talk about on another post.

The fun thing is that Bell thinks she's not capable of leadership, Bitters is… and they couldn't disagree more! Besides, they don't- want, to be a leader. Not like what New Vegas requires, or what Arroyo needs.

When it comes down to it, it's Bell who pushes for an independent New Vegas, and Bitters backs her up every step of the way. She becomes the public face of New Vegas, the Sheriff, and Bitters becomes the ghost of New Vegas. Doing things behind the scenes, aiding in so many fundamentally important ways while only receiving acknowledgement from the people close to them. Bell doesn't think she would be able to be where she is without Bitters, and Bitters doesn't think they would be able to be in Bell's position.

I AM UNWELL ABOUT THEM can you tell i love fallout new vegas

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 3: To My Knees

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Content warnings: Usual COD content (violence, torture, death, guns ESPECIALLY in this chapter), mutual pining, back from the dead, friends to allies to lovers, Reader is GN, some use of Y/N.

Chapter 2 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Chapter 4

Gaz and Bronze were stretching out this first glass, just hitting the two hour mark, but the conversation cover had yet to run dry. Occasionally, there would be input from another of your team, waiting in shadows and around corners, easing the tension ever so slightly with their addition to the chatter as well as providing repeated remarks on how their target was not yet in sight.

You stared at the map in front of you, brows bent as if you didn’t have it half memorised, as if there hadn’t been any passersby in this alleyway for ten minutes. Earpiece wired through your clothing allowed you to listen into the conversation you had yet to join.

One you’d considered remarking on was Gaz and Bronze joking about:

“Price told me he and Laswell met at a falafel stand.”

“And did they?”

“No. She annoyed him during a football match.”

That sounded more plausible at least. Price’s long-time partner was a neglected Liverpool season ticket. You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel to a familiar footie chant you had learned to chant during your first match. But you didn’t add anything. Nor did you say anything when Gaz insisted he was a catch and too good for Bronze when Crash joked about them being on a date.

You did when Soap talked about how he’d been guided through Las Almas in a mission gone south by Ghost, a bullet in his arm and delirious on adrenaline enough to exchange dumb jokes. After hearing his shellfish joke, you decided to join in with easing the tension that was creeping in through your neck.  

“Two windmills are standing on a wind farm. One asks, ‘what’s your favourite type of music?’ and the other replies ‘I’m a big metal fan’.”

The radio crackled with Soap’s low chuckles, “Pretty good, Captain.”

“I wouldn’t say good,” interrupted Chance.

“What’s good then?”

“What’s red and bad for your teeth?” You could already hear giggling down the radio before Chance jumped in to ensure she delivered the punchline: “A brick.”

“Tha’s awful, actually,” Soap said but with a dark snigger. Then he cut himself off sharpish: “Markovič on the south side of the street, heading towards Los Gatos.”

Your back straightened, “Alone?”

“Affirmative.”

This did nothing to confirm for you whether Markovič either had back-up you couldn’t see, or he was beyond stupid – both dangerous in any man, let alone an arm’s dealer, let alone the glorified sidekick of a terrorist. Your hands flexed then tightened around the wheel, then one held the ignition key, waiting for your signal.

“He’s at the bar,” Gaz reported. A minute later, he added: “He’s a gin man.”

You mirrored his attempts to keep things a little light, “Do they have Gordon’s out here?”

“It’s not the pink one, that’s for sure,” Gaz mumbled, and you could hear its echo in a half empty pint glass he was likely pretending to drink from, “You a gin fan yourself, Captain?”

“Not a big drinker at all.”

“What’s your vice then?”

“Sudoku.”

You’d let them debate whether or not you were serious later; Team Banshee would probably offer a few pieces of evidence to fill the gaps in the 141’s knowledge of you. But here was where your banter ended for now.

“He’s moving to sit alone, outside.”

You could picture him sipping a ballooned glass with ice swilling around, condensation as slippery as his character. The metal of the key warmed in your pinch, map discarded in your lap. Simulating every possible approach to any choice, your brain narrowed down Gaz and Bronze either heading inside for an attack in the bathroom, or directing Ghost, Chance, Price, and Crash to tail Markovič and intercept before he got home.

Your two soldiers continued their cover, ordering some tapas to split and doing their best not to flaunt how good it was to the rest of you. Gaz mentioned how he’d already paid the bill, and filled out the reimbursement forms too apparently. Just left the boxes of the amount blank, ready to be completed upon return. Both Gaz and Bronze dropped titbits of info on Markovič every minute, Soap too from his ledge.

At last, halfway through the third glass of gin, Gaz muttered down his microphone, “He’s headed for the bathroom. We’re on him.”

You twisted the ignition and the engine roared to life, “Meet you at the corner of Liepų and Lajos Street?”

“Can do, Cap,” Bronze said and you heard the scrape of his chair before he stopped talking.

The gear stick shifted, you drove out of the alleyway and took the two minute drive to your location. The mileometer kept your speed safe enough to not be pulled over by any rent-a-cop that might spot you, but quick enough to be with your team. Two back doors were flung open within the second you stopped, Gaz and Bronze hauling their prisoner up then tossing him in with a bag over his head and hands zip-tied. In your rear view mirror, Markovič’s body folded like a sheet of paper without Gaz or Bronze for support.

You heard two bangs after the door slams, so you moved out, ready to collect the rest of your team. Crash and Ghost were from the same corner about a quarter of a mile out. Chance and Price were close enough to the safehouse to have made it back just as you pulled into the garage. No one felt daft for over-estimating the amount of manpower on this mission. This  was, after all, just the first step in the right direction.

You helped haul the dead weight of your prisoner up the stairs in the absence of your regular workout.

A chair stood proudly in the centre of the one room without windows, the one you’d soundproofed that morning with your team. Even just stepping into the room felt like there was cotton wool against your ears. Tarps muted all footsteps. Hanging from the door frame was a black makeshift curtain blocking your captive from seeing anything outside the room.You took it upon yourself to search him whilst Gaz and Ghost bound his wrists and ankles to the chair’s metal frame: a wallet with just two cards, a stack of cash, and a few coins; a packet of tissues; a dog tag without a chain stamped with Odristanian; and an acorn.

Gaz and Ghost led the way out, you taking one more survey of the room before you followed satisfied and with the door shut behind you.

“He was carrying this in his waistband, tried to pull it out on us when we put him in a headlock.” Bronze held a tiny handgun up like it was a pair of dirty underwear. You took it, though he’d already had the frame of mind to empty the chamber and remove the clip.

“Good job, Gaz, Bronze,” You said first, before you could forget to praise your team. “Chance, you’re the lead on this. Ghost, I want you in there with Chance ready to sub in if she wants to take a break. No one else goes in unless Markovič’s somehow a master of withholding information; I don’t want him getting any ideas about how many of us there are or where he is through the door.”

Both nodded, happy with their positions. However-

“He’s got no idea where he is,” Bronze interjected, “He walked right past the toilet to take a piss in the alleyway out back. He’s hardly gonna figure out anything through a gap in the curtain.”

You stared at him, expression once again carefully neutral, and Bronze’s eyes widening told you he knew he’d been caught with his trousers down – in front of his entire team no less. Muting your frustration for now was the best approach, even though you shouldn’t have to tell this fully grown man about taking precautions in the possibility of this being a trap. Instead, you continued delegating your team for the night ahead.

“Still, we’ll approach with standard caution. Crash, Gaz, you’re on watch: one in the sitting room, one from the roof. Make sure no one’s tailed us. Soap, Price, I want you observing from here, and you can feed any info you think helpful to them via their earpieces. Bronze, you’re with me. We’ll swap around in shifts when times comes to sleeping and watch, but again, we keep Ghost and Chance on Markovič.”

Bronze trailed behind you as you entered the sitting room, where all the packs were (yours included). Following the cable you’d plugged in that morning, you found and began fiddling with your tablet to get it live and onto the webcam that Gaz had installed amongst the padding on the walls. Price and Soap already had theirs set up whilst you were patting down your prisoner.

“I was part of a capture or kill mission about fifteen years ago,” You mused aloud, knowing Bronze was paying attention.“Capture was easy, and folks got cocky. Turns out it was a catch and release. Our target’s army was on our location within the first minute of interrogation. Killed half of us, wounded the rest. Botched everything beyond belief, set some of us back a year in terms of recovery and intel, and we were considered the lucky ones.” Then you rose to your feet and made carefully practiced eye contact with your Sergeant, “You understand why I’m telling you this?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Don’t make me tell you again, and certainly not in front of others.” You held out the tablet to him with the grainy footage displaying Ghost entering the room, Chance settling in, “Every behaviour is communication. Figure out what’s being said. You’ve got the rest of the hour then you swap with Crash.”

Into the dining room, sat around the table like some fucked-up family dinner. Soap was checking his sniper rifle, Price smoking, Bronze without any distraction to aid his redemption from earlier. So you set yourself apart to make the MREs up, an eye on the spare tablet streaming the torture live.

After receiving silence as the answer to her first question, Chance started by plucking out Markovič’s nose hairs, Ghost holding his head still whilst Markovič attempted to wriggle away from her tweezers. Then she moved onto something more interesting. Technically you were to thank for that technique, for suggesting a viewing of Paddington to boost team morale and bonding after a particularly shitty close to a mission in 2020. You just hadn’t realised she’d been taking notes during the screening.

As you heated up the chilli, you felt Price’s shadow blot out some of the sting of the stove’s flame. His cigar left smoking in a gaudy ashtray, clearly bought from a tourist boutique nearby.

“I can help,” He said.

You snorted, “Two Captains making tea for their teams, now that’s a laugh.” But you still shoved over the mess tins – clean from when Crash had scrubbed them clean earlier.

“It’s our jobs to make sure we all stay on our feet. You included,” Price said as he unstacked them, handing you the one with a little bar of soap drawn on the underside in permanent marker.  

“Which is why I’m making the dinner.”

“You know I meant you resting, not you staying on your feet.”

“Had plenty of rest in the driver’s seat,” and you dolloped the chilli into the tin.

You four ate in relative silence, apart from Bronze beside you who was noting down the reactions on your tablet’s post-it notes app, responses that Ghost and Chance were certainly logging in their own heads. That was his punishment technically: becoming your secretary for the paperwork you’d fill out at the end of the mission. He fucking hated it but he did it because you told him to, and he never needed to be told twice.

Some of Markovič’s methods of resisting were more akin to mindfulness practices: the deep breathing, the eyes closed, the rocking (limited against his restraints). He started to crumble at the twenty minute mark, letting slip Čiernik’s plan to relocate for the

“That’s new,” Bronze remarked when Chance began digging the tweezers into the wound on his stomach she’d sliced open with the accuracy of a surgeon. Markovič in response had let out a wheeze and told them that he’d give them the location.

“Crash, Bronze is on his way up to swap,” You called down your radio. No response, which was unlike her. Regardless, Bronze was already heading up, your tablet back in hand.

Chance sipped from her water bottle in the top left corner of your screen, behind Ghost whilst she watched what he was like in the interrogation room. Two words: viciously unempathetic.

“Why did the man miss the funeral?” Soap asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

You sighed, unable to figure it out, “Dunno, why?”

“He wasn’t a mourning person.”

Your mouth twisted into a half-smile that was trying to take itself seriously, “That’s pretty good.”

“Can’t take credit for that one.”

“Then send my compliments to the chef.”

“Ghost’ll be happy to hear them,” Soap snorted.

As you went to direct your smile directly at the Sergeant, you instead caught Price looking at you, though he glanced back down at his screen when you made eye contact. You didn’t like how the implication of him watching you instead of his Lieutenant sent your stomach flipping over the powdered eggs from this morning.

To cover your ruffled feathers, you went into the hallway to smooth them out and collided chest to chest with Crash.

“Sorry, Captain, didn’t hear you,” She explained quickly, catching her breath

“Your radio faulty?”

Crash paused before replying, “I was in another channel.”

Your frown was automatic, “Why?”

Another pause. “Listening to Chance and Ghost in the interrogation.”

“That’s not what I asked you to do.” Your weighted statement shrank Crash in front of you like a cotton shirt in the tumble dryer.

“Sorry.”

“Do better.” Somehow you managed to restrain your additional comment until after she’d left and into a whisper: “Fuck’s sake.”

It was embarrassing, your team showing you up with rookie missteps and trivial unprofessionalism. Now of all the times and places they could choose to be stupid.

Soap offered to swap out with Gaz, let him rest a little, and you agreed to it.

“We’ll start sleep shifts in a few,” You added, then repeated once Gaz was in the room again. He inhaled his MRE, despite being the one to order a bowl of nuts to pick through during the capture earlier.

When Chance exited her torture chambers, you held up her MRE – still sealed in its packet. She nodded and you began to make it as you asked:

“How do you think it’s going?”

Yes, you had been watching and paying attention to your screen, but it wasn’t the same as being in the room. The blurry pixels could only offer so much.

Chance sighed, stretching out her shoulders, “He’s gobby, in the worst way. But he’ll break soon. Just wanted him to remember what relief feels like.”

To be fair to him, Markovič had lasted longer than you thought. Perhaps you should start drinking gin.

“Anything you fancy?” You asked her.

Shrugging, Chance suggested with a wry expression, “Stick and poke?”

You mulled it over, tongue poking in your cheek. Then you gave her a nod of confirmation, your nose wrinkled, as if she was asking if you wanted another pint because it was her round. Stretching out your spine as she returned to her post, you returned to your screen and watched the basis of Chance’s failed tattoo artist dream reworked to suit her current occupation.

Each time Markovič passed out from the pain, Ghost used smelling salts to bring him back to continue a malicious cycle of Chance stabbing him in the same places with a heated needle.

It culminated in the reveal of a piece of intel that struck your partnership. You could see Soap’s fists wringing an invisible neck. Ghost squared his shoulders as he corked the smelling salts. Even Price’s jaw clenched at the mention of a name you’d come across in their files. Markovič begged with his two captors, desperately clawing at the chair and asserting with his remaining energythat it was the truth.Chance continued poking inside his dermis for ten minutes more – just to be certain. Plus you were certain she had read her fellow Lieutenant’s body language and how he wasn’t quite content with leaving the room this way – and he landed a solid punch on the back of Markovič’s head that sent him into unconsciousness and his chair tilting over. Your prisoner looked peaceful for the first time since you'd captured him, folded over and praying in his own putrid blood.

Both the Lieutenants finally left the torture chamber and both their Captains met them outside the door. Chance had very little to add to what she’d already reported. But Ghost shoved his demand right there and then.

“He can’t tell them we’re coming,” He said, his words as harsh as if he’d spat at you.

You nodded in agreement, “I’ll take care of it.”

But Ghost shook his head with the same ire, “S’alright, I’ll do it. Not hungry anyways.”

“Ok,” You said, maintaining the calm to balance his fury, “Good job. You too, Chance.”

“I’ll contact Laswell,” Price stated, the chair legs screeching on the wooden floor as he rose to stand.

“Patch in General Fernandez too; I need a word with him. Ta,” you added the last word quickly as he started to leave. While you stopped yourself looking at his hips, you didn’t quite manage to wrangle the memory of how you’d wrapped your legs around them for a piggy back after a successful football match as rookies, and sometimes imagined if you were on his front instead of his back, arms still around his neck, holding him close, just as eager, just as delighted to be with him.

“Fuck’s sake,” you muttered again, pinching the bridge of your nose. You were worse than Bronze with the unprofessionalism at this point, letting it spill out of your head into your actions. If you were alone, you’d slap yourself. Hard. Get your head screwed on right and tight.

Onscreen, Ghost was clipping open the zip-ties from Markovič, who collapsed onto the tarps, the KA-BAR in his neck hardly leaking despite the angle. He left it in there to recover in the morning, once livor mortis was well and truly underway.

Summoning your façade back into position, you moved to the side room for a little privacy, ready to talk to the equivalent of your line manager. “Laswell, patching in Komodo” was the last you heard as you switched to the appropriate channel.

“This is Komodo Actual,” General Fernandez spoke clear as a whistle down your earpiece, “Nice to hear from you at last, Captain.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, “Sir,Markovič has given us the details of Čiernik’s next move and one of his storage facilities he frequently uses; Laswell’s verifying the kinks of what we can do about it.”

“Good work. Any damage on your side?”

“Not yet, standby for that. Markovič also gave us intel involving Gold Eagle.”

There was a pause, and you could only assume that your very thorough General was sweeping his room once more to assure absolute secrecy before he asked: “What’s the intel?”

“We’ve stumbled upon another of his pet projects. Čiernik is on his payroll.”

-----------

AN: Thanks for the patience, I've started a new job and it's taking a lot of my time. I appreciate the love I've been getting on this. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea so it makes it all the nicer when it finds folks who like it <3

Next chapter, things start amping up, and some hints/teasers become answers so rewards for those who've been paying attention and those who are along for the ride!

Taglist: @mockerycrow

[dayurno]

do you have any thoughts about the way thea was handled? ever since nora has been more active on twt (and mentioned the hate thea gets) people have been sort of insistent about Always Having Liked Her Actually and it irks me a lot, because imo people SHOULD be upset at the fact that kevin (who has been abused all his life and has trauma regarding the nest) has a gf who's from that same environment but 1. doesn't seem all that concerned about getting better / helping kevin get better 2. shouts at him in the only scene they're in together 3. isn't even described as a particularly good presence in the extra content explaining their past 4. this is just a horrible cherry on top but she's 5 years older and they met when he was 14 :/// like if anything i think this has a lot to do with nora not having been kind to kevin (which she also recently admitted to) like damn can he get one thing in life that's just good for him. one safe haven. jesus

short answer: i think thea as a character has been done the worst by nora sakavic, and the lack of care she was shown is in line with how all for the game treats its other characters of color.

long answer: most of my thoughts about how thea was handled are less about thea the character itself and more about her throwaway appearance and the overall lack of interest the author had when writing her. thea's a widely hated character for many reasons, not all of them valid, and a big one is that she was shoved into the narrative at one of the very last few chapters and paired up with one of the most important characters with very little thought or effort. we don't get even a hint of her existance before her appearance, and her one scene does not gather her sympathy because what we know of her is that she's an unrepentant raven (arguably the series' most evident villains) and what we see of her is a moment of great anger, that, even if ignorant, mimics the hostility most of the other ravens had towards kevin/the foxes during the trilogy

this is all to say: i don't like the way thea was written, and i think, especially, that it was a bad optic to write a black woman whose only scene is her being hostile towards her love interest. i need you to know that i'm not saying thea was not right to be angry, or that thea should've flown in and nursed kevin's mental health as soon as she could — both because it's out of character and because it's ridiculous —, but i am saying that she was not afforded almost anything as a character, in both terms of humanity and screentime. this is nothing new with how aftg treats its characters of color, and it is very telling that the characters who get the most flack (namely nicky and thea and riko) are the core of the non-white cast. thea and riko are not afforded complexity; nicky is a constantly flamboyant brown man whose only purpose is to wrangle his cousins and deliver friendship-related one liners to neil. this is why nora sakavic's refusal to comment on them grates on me, and why the new wave of adoration for the series with no nuance suffocates all of the real criticism done by fans of color in the last ten years.

and here's a personal answer: thea's future breaks my heart just as much as kevin's does, because she is also a victim of cultist mentality, and she never breaks out of it. i have no doubts in my heart that the nest was cruel to her, and her unflinching loyalty to the ravens until the end saddens me because it is a terrible existence when all is said and done. thea will not play exy forever, and by the time she has to retire, she will be just as miserable as kevin was. i don't know if she'll ever acknowledge how awful the ravens were either to her or to kevin — i don't know if she'll *want* to, because it is hard to do all that work, and it will leave her deeply scarred to realize most of it was not necessary to her sucess —, but i hope she does, and i hope that on that day, she will be able to decide for herself where to go from there.

[badblood-lesmis]

i am quite obsessed with Enjolras' mother & the trope of going voluntarily insane to escape but this is just a small thing for now

He would like to have said that he hasn’t spoken to his mother in years. He would also like to have said that he never knew his mother. Both of those things would be true and not true at the same time. He did, of course, speak to his mother, although that often felt like an overstatement. He nodded to his mother when he saw her coming down the stairs, he sometimes asked her something mundane just to remember what her voice sounded like. If she had slept well. If she would like something to drink. She had this way of turning her head towards him and giving him a long cloudy stare which always made him want to seize her by the shoulders and shake her and scream hello i am your son the one you gave birth to and it would really be nice sometimes if you didn’t look like you were trying to remember what my name is or who i am every single time you look at me. He never did, of course, and she eventually seemed to settle on some sort of conclusion of who he was, because she would arrange her mouth in a smile and say

“Fine, darling. Thank you.”

This was his only indicator that he is somehow different from the servants, that she actually knew the difference. Servants were dears, not darlings, but the guests were also darlings sometimes so in this there could be no certainty. Eventually he almost stopped doing that too — only if he was angry and wanted to make himself even angrier. He really really wanted to be angry. The angrier, the better, until he was so consumed by rage he saw red. Sometimes he wished she was dead, it would make it much easier. Dead people are more convenient when they are actually dead, not when they are walking around the house in a haze of madness and laudanum.

Sometimes he thought her madness was of the same nature as his rage. A carefully constructed and meticulously supported structure, allowing her to survive her husband and this house for sixteen years. Where Enjolras have chosen red, she chose no colour at all. For all intents and purposes, it wouldn’t make much of a difference had she been a ghost. Perhaps she would even be happier as one.

** *

Window glass rattled loudly like it was trying to be pushed out of the frame, a heavy beak knocking on it with insistence. A raven with glistening eyes stared inside the boys bedroom where his addressee was fast asleep along with two other boys. He knocked on the glass again, this time waking one of them. A messy head of hair rose from the pillow, looking around for the source of the noise. He knocked again, stirring, eager to get away from the freezing January air. Eager to get back to his own family, to fulfil his part of the deal, a crumpled piece of paper burning his leg.

The boy took his time, incredulously opening the window to let him in. The raven hopped inside, perching himself on the frame of one of the boys’ bed. The one he needed was still sleeping, not even the cold air waking him up.

“Who’re you then?” Asked the one who let him in. “Who uses ravens now, anyway?”

The raven thought poorly of owls. Undignified creatures, too much brawn, not enough brain, but he said nothing to that remark. Instead he bent his head down and slipped a small knot with his beak, letting a crumpled piece of paper fall on a nightstand, shook his feathers a bit and in a business-like manner proceeded back to the window. His family waited for him and he didn’t have time to wait for the boy to wake up. He considered his part of the deal done. Sealed and delivered.

“Weirdo.” Commented the boy when letting him back out. He was going to return to his own bed, when his curiosity got the better of him. Quietly, he snuck to Enjolras’ bedside table and unwrapped a small square of paper. In a very thin and shaky handwriting it said

Darling. You’ve done better than me. Never dare to return.

The boy stared at the note for a moment and folded it back before placing it on the nightstand again. “Cryptic weirdo,” he muttered to himself, getting into his bed. “Bloody dark wizards, his lot.”

[kootiepatra]

#WolmericWeek2024 - Day 4: Nameday

(fic below; also available on AO3 )

Keimwyda looked around at the full room with an even fuller heart. If someone would have said to her even three autumns ago that her nameday would look like this one day, she would not have believed them. She also would have assured them that she needed no such thing. …And she could only imagine how her present-day-friends would upbraid her even now for saying so.

It was clear that the Fortemps had by no means offered empty words when they spoke of considering her family. The extravagant gathering tonight proved it. Edmont had only become ever more fatherly towards Keimwyda since she and Aymeric began courting, and he was properly horrified upon learning how long it had been since her last nameday celebration. He insisted on hosting a feast commensurate with both the hospitality of House Fortemps and the gratitude of his people to their savior. And so now, it seemed to Keimwyda that half of Ishgard must be here.

Most of the faces, she did, in fact, know. From Lord Francel, to Lady Laniaitte, to Hilda, to folks from the local branch of the Ironworks, the room was filled with people she had worked for and with. A few of the Scions had made the journey as well: G’raha, who of course was not about to pass up an opportunity to visit Keimwyda in Ishgard , as well as Krile, whose friendship meant more to Keimwyda than almost anyone, and Tataru, who was all too eager for an excuse to step away from Revenant’s Toll and rekindle associations she had made at the Forgotten Knight. The Leveilleurs were there, too—Ameliance and the twins had insisted on celebrating their friend, and had prevailed upon Fourchenault to join them with some paper-thin pretense of building diplomatic relations on behalf of the Forum.

But there were also many attendees whom she did not know, at least not well. She suspected she largely had Emmanellain to thank for that. He was not like to be contained when an opportunity to flex his social connections presented itself. But in fairness, with what Keimwyda had learned of Isghardian high society thus far, she figured it was scarcely avoidable. One of the high houses hosting a feast in honor of a noteworthy figure? Any noble families who caught wind of it (and did not wish to deliver a purposeful snub) were apt to seek an invitation.

Once it became plain during the planning that a small, intimate gathering was well and truly out of the question, Keimwyda had proposed a few invitations of her own: Firstly, as many people from Hilda’s watch as she could spare, as well as any Aymeric and Handeloup wished to include from the temple knights. Secondly, the laborers she had come to know in their efforts rebuilding the Firmament. And finally, her “little siblings” from the Firmament orphanage, along with a sufficient number of adult volunteers to wrangle them. If her nameday was going to be a spectacle, it might as well include those for whom it would be the biggest treat. And if it meant that the party would be less a formal ball and more a community celebration, then so much the better. She would certainly feel more at ease that way.

There was food and laughter and music and dancing and a steady stream of well-wishers desirous to speak to Keimwyda, from the polite acquaintances to the genuine friends to the socialites who very much wanted to be seen making overtures to the Warrior of Light. Keimwyda was happy. She was. She was honored by the gesture. She was glad to see so many people enjoying themselves and enjoying the Fortemps’ generosity. She smiled softly to herself as she reflected on how very far this city had come, and how deeply her heart had become knit to it.

Twelve help her, though, it was a lot . 

With each conversation, without even realizing it, she had been steadily drifting towards the corner of the room. Part of her hoped that maybe, just maybe she might fade out of the center of attention for a minute or two. 

She was just concluding another such chat—a woman breathlessly thanking her for saving her son’s life on the battlefield in an encounter Keimwyda could not remember and was not entirely sure happened—when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She sighed to herself as she relinquished her hope of a momentary reprieve, reaffixed her polite smile, and turned to greet yet another reveler.

She had not expected that reveler to be Aymeric, but gods , did she welcome it.

He studied her face with a sympathetic smile, and wordlessly offered his arm to her. She took it. So he led them outside, quietly slipping through the side door to the terrace. Aymeric had such a better and more-practiced sense for how these functions worked than she did—he managed to make good their escape without drawing so much as a single comment from other partygoers. Keimwyda didn’t know how he pulled it off. But then, she always did admire the grace by which he navigated events like this.

The evening air was, as to be expected, quite bracing, but Keimwyda inhaled it gratefully all the same. Warm firelight spilled from the manor’s windows onto the balcony. The just-rising moon crested the skyline before them. The roar of dozens of conversations dissipated to a gentle murmur behind them as the heavy door swung shut—the music, although greatly muffled, now the main sound permeating the night.

Aymeric silently took her a few more steps before disentangling his arm and turning to face her. She looked to him curiously, wondering what it was he wished to speak about.

But he did not speak. Instead, he just smiled.

He bowed deeply.

And he extended his hand.

Keimwyda wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry with relief as she recognized the invitation to dance.

So she just blinked back the mist and slipped her hand into his. He drew her close. She leaned her head against his. They swayed gently to the sound of the softened melodies wafting through the door—to have each other, to hold each other, for a stolen moment of quiet and peace as long as the cold night would allow them.

Happy nameday, my love.